My Lady Green Sleeves

His NAME WAS LIAM O' LEARY and there was something
stinking in his nostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He
hadn't found what the trouble was yet, but he would. That
was his business. He was a captain of guards in Estates-
General Correctional Institutionbetter known to its in-
mates as the Jugand if he hadn't been able to detect
the scent of trouble brewing a cellblock away he would
never have survived to reach his captaincy.
And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee
No. WFA-656R.
He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what
got a girl like her into a place like this. And, what was
more important, why she couldn't adjust herself to it, now
that she was in.
He demanded, "Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?"
The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward.
The block guard, Sodaro, growled wamingly, "Watch it,
auntie!"
O'Leary shook his head. "Let her talk, Sodaro." It said
in the Civil Service Guide to Prison Administration: "De-
tainees will be permitted to speak in their own behalf in
disciplinary proceedings." And O'Leary was a man who
lived by the book.
She burst out, "I never got a chance! That old witch
Mathias never told me I was supposed to mop up. She
banged on the door and said, 'Slush up, sister!' And then
ten minutes later she called the guards and told them I
refused to mop."
The block guard guffawed. "Wipe talk! That's what she
was telling you to do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about
this? This Bradley is"
"Shut up, Sodaro." Captain O'Leary put down his
pencil and looked at the girl. She was attractive and young
not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off to a
wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in
the disciplinary block help straighten her out? He nibbed
his ear and looked past her at the line of prisoners on the
rap detail, waiting for him to judge their cases. He said
patiently, "Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out
your cell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was
talking about you should have asked her. Now, I'm warn-
ing you, the next time"
"Hey, Cap'n, wait!" Sodaro was looking alarmed. "This
isn't a first offense. Look at the rap sheetyesterday she
pulled the same thing in the mess hall." He shook his
head reprovingly at the prisoner. "The block guard had
to breakup a fight between her and another wench, and
she claimed the same businesssaid she didn't under-
stand when the other one asked her to move along." He
said virtuously, "The guard warned her then that next
time she'd get the Green Sleeves for sure."
Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She
said tautly, "I don't care. I don't care!"
O'Leary stopped her. "That's enough! Three days in
Block 0," he snapped, and waved her away. It was the
only thing to dofor her own sake as much as for his. He
had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had
omitted to say "sir" every time she spoke to him; but he
couldn't keep it up forever, and he certainly couldn't over-
look hysteria. And hysteria was clearly the next step for
her.
All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed
the rap sheet to Sodaro and said absently, "Too bad a kid
like her has to be here. What's she m for?"
"You didn't know, Cap'n?" Sodaro leered. "She's in for
conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. Don't
waste your time with her, Cap'nshe's a figger-lover!"
Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the
fountain marked "Civil Service." But it didn't wash the
taste out of his mouth.
What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind
of dirty business? He checked out of the cell blocks and
walked across the yard, wondering about her. She'd had
every advantagedecent Civil Service parents, a good
education, everything a girl could wish for. If anything,
she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself,
and look what she had made of it.
"Evening, Cap'n." A bleary old inmate orderly stood
up straight and touched his cap as O'Leary passed by.
"Evening." O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind
that always noted those things, that the orderly had been
lealling on his broom until he'd noticed the captain coming
by. Of course, there wasn't much to sweepthe spray
machines and sweeperdozers had been over the cobble-
stones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an
inmate's job to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's
job to notice when they didn't.
There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told
himself. It was a perfectly good civil-service position
better than post-office clerk, not as good as Congressman,
but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of
it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He was civil-
service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and
content to do a good, clean civil-service job. If he had
happened to be born a figa clerk, he told himself; if he
had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have
been proud of that too. There wasn't anything wrong with
being a clerkor a mechanic or a soldier, or even a
laborer for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of
the earth! They weren't smart, maybe, but they had a
well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Leary was
a broadminded man, and many times he had thought al-
most with a touch of envy how comfortable it must be to
be a wipea laborer, he corrected himself. No responsi-
bilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work
and loaf, work and loaf.
Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life,
because he was Civil Service, and not the kind to try to
cross over class barriers that weren't meant to be
"Evening, Cap'n."
He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoreti-
cally, in charge of maintaining the prison's car pool, just
inside the gate. "Evening, Conan," he said. Conan, now
he was a big buck greaser, and he would be there for the
next hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air
filter on the prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, cer-
tamly. Bat he kept the cars goingand, O'Leary thought
approvingly, when his sentence was up in another year or
so, he would go back to his life with his status restored,
a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and he
certainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by
trying to pass as Civil Service or anything else. He knew
his place.
So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know
hers?

n
Every prison has its Green Sleevessometimes they
are called by different names. Old Marquette called it
"the canary"; Louisiana State called it "the red hats";
elsewhere it was called "the hole," "the snake pit," "the
Klondike." When you're in it you don't much care what
it is called; it is a place for punishment.
And punishment is what you get.
Block 0 in Estates-General Correctional Institution was
the disciplinary block, and because of the green strait-
jackets its inhabitants wore it was called the Green Sleeves.
It was a community of its own, an enclave within the
larger city-state that was the Jug. And like any other com-
munity, it had its leading citizens . . . two of them. Their
names were Sauer and Flock.
Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the
Green Sleeves. She was in a detachment of three unfor-
tunates like herself, convoyed by an irritable guard, climb-
ing the steel steps toward Block 0 from the floor below,
when she heard the yelling.
"Owoo-o-o," screamed Sauer from one end of the cell
block; and "Yow-w-w!" shrieked Flock at the other.
The inside deck guard of Block 0 looked nervously at
the outside deck guard. The outside guard looked im-
passively backafter all, he was on the outside. The in-
side guard muttered, "Wipe rats! They're getting on my
nerves."
The outside guard shrugged.
"Detail, halt!" The two guards turned to see what was
coming in as the three new candidates for the Green
Sleeves slumped to a stop at the head of the stairs. "Here
they are," Sodaro told them. "Take good care of 'em, will
you? Especially the ladyshe's going to like it here, be-
cause there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to
keep her company." He laughed coarsely and abandoned
his charges to the Block 0 guards.
The outside guard said sourly, "A woman, for God's
sake. Now, O'Leary knows I hate it when there's a woman
in here. It gets the others all riled up."
"Let them in," the inside guard told him. "The others
are riled up already."   -
Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid
them no attention. The outside guard pulled the switch
that  turned  on  the  tanglefoot  electronic  fields  that
swamped the floor of the block corridor and of each in-
dividual cell. While the fields were on, you could ignore
the prisonersthey simply could not move fast enough,
against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm.
But it was a rule that even in Block 0 you didn't leave
the tangler fields on all the timeonly when the cell doors
had to be opened or a prisoner's restraining garment re-
moved.
Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened
gateand fell flat on her face. It was like walking through
molasses; it was her first experience of a tanglefoot field.
The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder.
'Take it easy, auntie. Come on, get in your cell." He
steered her in the right direction and pointed to a green-
sleeved straitjacket on the cell cot. "Put that on. Being
as you're a lady, we won't tie it upbut the rules say
you got to wear it, and the rulesHey! She's crying!" He
shook his head, marveling. It was the first time he had
ever seen a prisoner cry in the Green Sleeves.
However, he was wrong. Sue-Ami's shoulders were
shaking, but not from tears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a
good look at Sauer and at Flock as she passed them by,
and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urge
to retch.
Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves.
They were laborers"wipes," for shortor at any rate
they had been once; they had spent so much time in
prisons that it was sometimes hard even for them to re-
member what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,
grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock
was a lithe five-footer, with the build of a water moccasin
and the sad, stupid eyes of a calf.
Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. "Hey, Flock," he
cried.
"What do you want, Sauer?" called Flock from his
own cell.
"Didn't you see, Rock?" bellowed Sauer. "We got a
lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling so
as not to disturb the lady!" He screeched with howling,
maniacal laughter. "Anyway, if we don't cut this out,
they'll get us in trouble. Flock!"
"Oh, you think so?" shrieked Flock. "Jeez, I wish you
hadn't said that, Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared
I'm gonna have to yell!"
The howling started all over again.
The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners
away and turned off the tangler field once more. He licked
his lips. "Say, you want to take a turn in here for a
while?"
"Uh-uh," said the outside guard.
"You're yellow," the inside guard said moodily. "Ah,
I don't know why I don't quit this lousy job. Hey, you!
Pipe down or III come in and beat your head off!"
"Ee-ee-ee!" shrieked Sauer. "I'm scared!" Then he
grinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes.
"Don't you know you can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on
the head, boss?"
"Shut up!" yelled the inside guard. . . .
Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She
simply could not help it. The crazy yowling of the hard-
timers, Sauer and Flock, was getting under her skin. They
weren't eveneven human, she told herself miserably,
trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards the
satisfaction of hearing her. They were animals!
Resentment and anger she could understandshe told
herself doggedly that resentment and anger were natural
and right. They were perfectly normal expressions of the
freedom-loving citizen's rebellion against the vile and
stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good that
Sauer and Flock still had enough spirit to straggle against
the vicious system
But did they have to scream so?
The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She aban-
doned herself to weeping, and she didn't even care who
heard her any more. Senseless!
It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not
be senseless, because noise hides noise. But then, she
hadn't been a prisoner very long.
m
"I smell trouble," said O'Leary to the warden.
"Trouble, trouble?" Warden Schluckebier clutched his
throat and his little round eyes looked terrifiedas per-
haps they should have. Warden Godfrey Schlackebier was
the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates in the Jug,
but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto
the last decent job he would have in his life. 'Trouble?
What trouble?"
O'Leary shrugged. "Different things. You know Lafon,
from Block A? This afternoon he was playing ball with
the laundry orderlies in the yard."
The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded:
"O'Leary, what did you want to worry me for? There's
nothing wrong with playing ball in the yard. That's what
recreation periods are for!"
"No. You don't see what I mean, warden. Lafon was a
professional on the outsidean architect. Those laundry
cons were laborers. Pros and wipes don't mix, it isn't
natural. And there are other things." O'Leary hesitated,
frowning. How could you explain to the warden that it
didn't smell right? "For instance Well, there's Aunt
Mathias in the women's block. She's a pretty good old
girlthat's why she's the block orderly, she's a lifer, she's
got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.
But today she put a woman named Bradley on report.
Why? Because she told Bradley to mop up in wipe talk
117
and Bradley didn't understand. Now, Mathias wouldn't"
The warden raised his hand. "Please, O'Leary," he
begged. "Don't bother me about that kind of stuff." He
sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He poured himself a
cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in a
desk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary,
then dropped a pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it
down eagerly, ignoring its temperature.
He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and more
assured.
"O'Leary," he said, "you're a guard captain, right? And
I'm your warden. You have your job, keeping the inmates
in line, and I have mine. Now, your job is just as im-
portant as my job," he said piously, staring gravely at
O'Leary. "Everybody's job is just as important as every-
body else's, right? But we have to stick to our own jobs.
We don't want to try to pass."
O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the
devil way was that for the warden to talk to him.
"Excuse the expression, O'Leary," the warden said
anxiously. "I mean, after all, 'Specialization is the goal of
civilization,' right?" He was a great man for platitudes,
was Warden Schluckebier. "You know, you don't want
to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don't
want to worry about yours. You see?" And he folded his
hands and smiled like a civil-service Buddha.
O'Leary choked back his temper. "Warden, I'm telling
you that there's trouble coming up. I smell the signs."
"Handle it, then!" snapped the warden, irritated at last.
"But suppose it's too big to handle? Suppose"
"It isn't," the warden said positively. "Don't borrow
trouble with all your supposing, O'Leary." He sipped the
remains of his coffee, made a wry face, poured a fresh
cup and, with an elaborate show of not noticing what he
himself was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets
into it this time.
He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take
effect.
"Well, then," he said at last. "You just remember what
I've told you tonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine.
'Specialization is the' Oh, curse the thing."
His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up ir-
ritablythat was the trouble with those pale blue tablets,
thought O'Leary; they gave you a lift, but they put you
on edge. "Hello," barked the warden, not even glancing
at the viewscreen. "What the devil do you want? Don't
you know I'm What? You did what? You're going to
WHAT?"
He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure
horror.
Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His
eyes opened like clamshells in a steamer.
"O'Leary," he said faintly, "my mistake."
And he hung upmore or less by accident; the handset
dropped from his fingers.
The person on the other end of the phone was calling
from Cell Block 0.
Five minutes before he hadn't been anywhere near the
phone, and it didn't look as if his chances of ever getting
near it were very good. Because five minutes before he was
in his cell, with the rest of the hard-timers of the Green
Sleeves.
His name was Flock.
He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across
from him, thought that maybe, after all, the man was
really in pain. Maybe the crazy screams were screams of
agony, because certainly his face was the face of an
agonized man.
The outside guard bellowed: "Okay, okay. Take ten!"
Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What
actually did happen was that the guard reached up and
closed the switch that actuated the tangler fields on the
floors of the cells. The prison rules were humanitarian,
even for the dregs that inhabited the Green Sleeves. Ten
minutes out of every two hours, even the worst case had
to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining gar-
ment. "Rest period" it was calledin the rule book; the
inmates had a less lovely term for it.
At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.
Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-
slat bednobody had warned her that the eddy currents
in the tangler fields had a way of making metal smoke-hot.
She gasped, but didn't cry out. Score one more painful
lesson in her new language course. She rubbed the backs
of her thighs gingerlyand slowly, slowly. The eddy
currents did not permit you to move fast. It was like push-
ing against rubber; the faster you tried to move, the
greater the resistance.
The guard peered genially into her cell. "You're okay,
auntie." She proudly ignored him as he slogged deliber-
ately away on his rounds. At least he didn't have to untie
her, and practically stand over her while she attended to
various personal matters, as he did with the male prison-
ers. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann
Bradley was grateful. At least, she didn't have to live
quite like a figlike an underprivileged clerk, she told
herself, conscience-stricken.
Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably, "What
the hell's the matter with you?" He opened the door of
the cell with an asbestos-handled key held in a canvas
glove.
Flock was in that cell, and he was doubled over.
The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick,
maybe. Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face, and
the agony in it was real enough. And Flock was gasping,
through real tears: "Cramps. I1"
"Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut." The
guard lumbered around Rock to the drawstrings at the
back of the jacket. Funny smell in here, he told himself
not for the first time. And imagine, some people didn't
believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time,
he realized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Some-
thing burning. Scorchingalmost like meat scorching.
It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned
away; let the stinking wipe take care of his own troubles.
He only had ten minutes to get all the way around Block
0, and the inmates complained like crazy if he didn't
make sure they all got the most possible free time. He was
pretty good at snow-shoeing through the tangler field. He
was a little vain about it, even; at times he had been
known to boast of his ability to make the rounds in two
minutes, every time. . . .
Every time but this.
For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.
The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There was
Flockastonishing, he was half out of his jacket; his arms
hadn't been in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands,
incredibly, there was something that glinted and smoked.
"All right," croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes
nearly shut with pain.
But it wasn't the tears that held the guard, it was the
shining, smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv!
It looked as though it had been made out of a bedspring,
ripped loose from its frame God knows how, hidden in-
side the green-sleeved jacket God knows howfiled, filed
to  sharpness  over  endless  hours.  No  wonder  Flock
moaned! For the eddy-currents in the shiv were slowly
cooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen
where the shiv had rested during other rest periods felt
like raw acid.
"All right," whispered Flock, "just walk out the door,
and you won't get hurt. Unless the other screw makes
trouble, you won't get hurtso tell him not to, you hear?"
He was nearly fainting with the pain.
But he hadn't let go.
He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.

IV
And it was Flock on the phone to the wardenFlock
with his eyes still streaming tears. Flock with Sauer stand-
ing right bebind him, menacing the two bound deck
guards.
Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. "Hey, warden!" he
saidand the voice was a cheerful bray, though the ser-
pent eyes were cold and hating. "Warden, you got to get
a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurt himself real bad
and he needs a doctor." He gestured playfully at the
guards with the shiv. "I tell yon, warden. I got this knife,
and I got your guards here. Enough said? So get a medic
in here quickyou hear?"
And he snapped the connection.
O'Leary said, "Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!"
The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to
speak, hesitated, and picked up the long-distance phone.
He said sadly to the prison operator: "Get me the Gover-
norfasti"
Riot!
The word spread out from the prison on seven-league
boots. It snatched the City Governor out of a friendly
game of Seniority with his Manager and their wivesand
just when he was holding the Porkbarrel Joker concealed
in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble
Finals at Hap Arnold Field to the south, as half the con-
testants had to scramble in earnest to a Red Alert that
was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV
newsrooms and highway checkpoints, and from there it
filtered into the homes and lives of the nineteen million
persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.
Riot. And yet, fewer than half a dozen men were ac-
tually involved.
A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-
state quivered in every limb and class. It was like a
quarrel of fleas on the hide of a rhino!
But a flea-bite can kill a rhino with the slow agony of
communicated disease; and the city-state around the
prison leaped in fear. In its ten million homes, in its hun-
dreds of thousands of public places, the city-state's people
shook under the impact of the news from the prison.
For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot!
And not merely a street brawl among roistering wipes, or
a barroom fight of greasers relaxing from a hard day at
the plantthe riot was down among the corrupt sludge
that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipes,
and no one cared; but in the Jug all classes were cast
together.
Thirty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a
blaze of light. The airmen tumbled out of their quarters
and dayrooms at the screech of the alert siren, and behind
them their wives and children stretched and yawned and
worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complained
and their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any
alert scheduled for tonight; no, they didn't know where
Daddy was going; no, the kids couldn't get up yetit was
the middle of the night!
And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of
the mothers struggled into their own airwac uniforms and
headed for the Briefing Area to hear.
They caught the words from a distancenot quite cor-
rectly.   "Riot!"  gasped  an  aircraftswoman  first-class,
mother of three. "The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out
of hand, and Alys, we aren't safe. You know how they
are about Gl women! I'm going right home and get a club
and stand right by the door and"
"Club!" snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two
children querulously awake in her nursery at home. "What
in God's name is the use of a club? You can't hurt a wipe
hitting him on the head. You'd better come along to Sup-
ply with me and draw a gunyou'll need it before this
night is out!"
But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and
clear over the scramble-call speakers, and they knew it
was not merely a matter of trouble in the wipe quarters.
The Jug! The governor himself had called them out; they
were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-such levels
on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. So the
rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off
with a whistling roar; and last of all the helicopters took
off . . . and they were the ones who might actually ac-
complish something. They took up their picket posts on
the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiers in each
copter,  stone-faced,  staring grimly alert at the prison
below.
They were ready for the break-out.
Butthere wasn't any break-out.
The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home
for fuel. The helicopters hung onstill ready, still waiting.
The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about,
and went away again. They stayed away. The helicopter
men never faltered and never relaxed. The prison below
them was washed with lightfrom the guard posts on the
walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile
lights of the guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North
of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of
reclaimed land, the matchbox row houses of the clerical
neighborhoods showed lights in every window as the
figgers stood ready to repel invasion from their undesired
neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowded tene-
ments of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from
window to window; and there were crowds in the bright
streets.
"The whole bloody thing's going to blow up!" a heli-
copter bombardier yelled bitterly to his pilot, above the
flutter and roar of the whirling blades. "Look at the mobs
in GreaserviUe! The first break-out from the Jug's going to
start a fight like you never sawand well be right in the
middle of it!"
He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of
itfor every man, woman and child in the city-state
would be right in the middle of it; there was no place
anywhere that would be spared. No Mixing. That was the
prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm
in a family fightand aren't all mechanics a family, aren't
all laborers a clan, aren't all clerks and office workers re-
lated by closer ties than blood or skin? But the declassed
cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; and once
they spread the neat compartmentation of society was
pierced. The break-out would mean riot on a bigger scale
than any prison had ever known. . . .
But he was also partly wrong. Because the break-out
wasn't seeming to come.
The Jug itself was coming to a boil.
Honor Block A, relaxed and comfortable at the end of
another, day, found itself shaken alert by strange goings-
on. First there was the whir and roar of the Air Force
overhead. Trouble. Then there was the sudden arrival of
extra guards, doubling the normal complementday-shift
guards, summoned away from their comfortable civil-
service homes at some urgent call. Trouble for sure.
Honor Block A wasn't used to trouble. A Block was as
far from the Green Sleeves of 0 Block as you could get
and still stay in the Jug. Honor Block A belonged to the
prison's halfbreedsthe honor prisoners, the trusties who
did guards' work because there weren't enough guards to
go around. They weren't Apaches or Piutes; they were
camp-following Injuns who had sold out for the white
man's firewater. The ppce of their services was privilege
many privileges. Item:' TV sets in every cell. Item: Hobby
tools, to make gadgets for the visitor tradethe only way
an inmate could earn an honest dollar. Item: In conse-
quence, an exact knowledge of everything the outside
world knew and put on its TV screens (including the
grim, alarming reports of "trouble at Estates-General")
and the capacity to convert their "hobby tools" toother
uses.
An honor prisoner named Wilmer Lafon was watching
the TV screen with an expression of rage and despair.
Lafon was a credit to the Jughe was a showpiece for
visitors. Prison rules provided for prisoner trainingit
was a matter of "rehabilitation." Prisoner rehabilitation is
a joke, and a centuries-old one at that; but it had its
serious uses, and one of them was to keep the prisoners
busy. It didn't much matter at what.
Lafon, for instance, was being "rehabilitated" by study-
ing architecture. The guards made a point of bringing in-
spection delegations to his cell to show him off. There
were his walls, covered with pin-upsbut not of women.
The pictures were sketches Lafon had drawn himself; they
were of buildings, highways, dams and bridges; they were
splendidly conceived and immaculately executed. "Looka
that!" the guards would rumble to their guests. "There
isn't an architect on the outside as good as this boy!
What do you say, Wilmer? Tell the gentlemenhow long
you been taking these correspondence courses in architec-
ture? Six years! Ever since he came to the Jug."
And Lafon would grin and bob his head, and the dele-
gation would go, with the guard saying something like:
"Believe me, that Wihner could design a whole skyscraper
and it wouldn't fall down, either!"
And they were perfectly, provably right. Not only could
Inmate Lafon design a skyscraper, but he had already
done so. More than a dozen of them. And none had
fallen down.
Of course, that was more than six years bade, before
he was convicted of a felony and sent to the Jug. He
would never design another. Or if he did, it would never
be built. For the plain fact of the matter was that the Jug's
rehabilitation courses were like rehabilitation in every
prison that was ever built since time and punishment be-
gan. They kept the inmates busy. They made a show of
purpose for an institution that had never had a purpose
that made sense. And that was all.
For punishment for a crime is not satisfied by a jail
sentencehow does it hurt a man to feed and clothe and
house him, with the bills paid by the state? Lafon's pun-
ishment was that he, as an architect, was through. Savage
tribes used to lop off a finger or an ear to punish a crimi-
nal. Civilized societies confine their amputations to bits
and pieces of the personality. Chop-chop, and a man's rep-
utation comes off; chop again, and his professional stand-
ing is gone; chop-chop and he has lost the respect and
trust of his fellows. The jail itself isn't the punishment.
The jail is only the shaman's hatchet that performs the
amputation. If rehabilitation in a jail workedii it was
meant to workit would be the end of jails.
Rehabilitation? Rehabilitation for what?
Wilmer Lafon switched off the television set and silently
pounded his fist into the wall.
Never again to return to the Professional class! For
naturally, the conviction had cost him his membership in
the Architectural Society, and that had cost him his Pro-
fessional standing.
But stilljust to be out of the Jug, that would be
something! And his whole hope of ever getting out lay
not here in Honor Block A, but in the turmoil of the
Green Sleeves, a hundred meters and fifty armed guards
away.
He was a furious man. He looked into the cell next
door, where a con named Garcia was trying to concentrate
on a game of Solitaire Splitfee. Once Garcia had been a
Professional too; he was the closest thing to a friend Wil-
mer Lafon had. Maybe he could now help to get Lafon
where he wantedneededto be. . . .
Lafon swore silently and shook his head. Garcia was
a spineless milksop, as bad as any clerkLafon was
nearly sure there was a touch of the inkwell somewhere
in his family. Clever enough, like all figgers. But you
couldn't rely on him in a pinch.
He would have to do it all himself.
He thought for a second, ignoring the rustle and mum-
ble of the other honor prisoners of Block A. There was no
help for it; he would have to dirty his hands with physical
activity.
Outside on the deck, the guards were grumbling to
each other. Lafon wiped the scowl off his black face, put
on a smile, rehearsed what he was going to say, and
rattled the door of his cell.
"Shut up down there!" one of the screws bawled. Lafon
recognized the voice; it was the guard named Sodaro.
That was all to the good. He knew Sodaro, and he had
some plans for him.
He rattled the cell door again and called: "Chief, can
you come here a minute, please?"
Sodaro yelled, "Didn't you hear me? Shut up!" But in
a moment he came wandering by and looked into Lafon's
tidy little cell.
"What the devil do you want?" he grumbled.
Lafon said ingratiatingly, "Hey, chief, what's going on?"
"Shut your mouth," Sodaro said absently and yawned.
He hefted his shoulder holster comfortably. That O'Leary,
what a production he had made of getting the guards
back! And here he was, stuck in Block A on the night he
had set aside for getting better acquainted with that little
blue-eyed statistician from the Census office.
"Aw, chief. The television says there's something going
on in the Green Sleeves. What's the score?"
Sodaro had no reason not to answer him; but it was
his unvarying practice to make a con wait before doing
anything the con wanted. He gave Lafon a ten-second
stare before he relented.
"That's right. Sauer and Flock took over Block 0. What
about it?"
Much, much about it! But Lafon looked away to hide
the eagerness in his eyes. Perhaps, after all, it was not too
late. . . . He suggested humbly: "You look a little sleepy.
Do you want some coffee?"
"Coffee?" Sodaro scratched. "You got a cup for me?"
"Certainly! I've got one put asideswiped it from the
messhall, you know, not the one I use myself."
"Um." Sodaro leaned on the cell door. "You know I
could toss you in the Green Sleeves for stealing from the
messhall."
"Aw, chief!" Lafon grinned.
"You been looking for trouble. O'Leary says you were
messing around with the bucks from the laundry detail,"
Sodaro said half-heartedly. But he didn't really like pick-
ing on Lafon, who was, after all, an agreeable inmate to
have on occasion. "All right. Where's the coffee?"
They didn't bother with tanglefoot fields in Honor Block
A. Sodaro just unlocked the door and walked in, hardly
bothering to look at Lafon. He took three steps toward the
neat little desk at the back of the cell, where Lafon had
rigged up a drawing board and a table, where Lafon kept
his little store of luxury goods. Three steps. And then,
suddenly aware that Lafon was very close to him, 'he
turned, astonished A little too late. He saw that Lafon
had snatched up a metal chair; he saw Lafon swinging it,
his black face maniacal; he saw the chair coming down.
He reached for his shoulder holster; but it was very much
too late for that.

v
Captain O'Leary dragged the scared little wretch into
the warden's office. He shook the con angrily. "Listen to
this, warden! The boys just brought this one in from the
Shops Building. Do you know what he's been up to?"
The warden wheezed sadly and looked away. He had
stopped even answering O'Leary by now, he had stopped
talking to Sauer on the interphone when the big convict
called, every few minutes, to rave and threaten and de-
mand a doctor. He had almost stopped doing everything
except worry and weep. Butstill and all, he was the
warden. He was the one who gave the orders.
O'Leary barked, "Warden, pay attention! This little
greaser has boUixed up the whole tangler circuit for the
prison. If the cons get out into the Yard now you won't
be able to tangle them. You know what that means?
They'll have the freedom of the Yard, and who knows
what comes next?"
The warden frowned sympathetically. "Tsk, tsk."
O'Leary shook the con again. "Come on, Hiroko! Tell
the warden what you told the guards."
The con shrank away from him. Beads of sweat were
glistening on his furrowed yellow forehead. "I1 had to
do it, Cap'n!" he babbled. "I shorted the wormcan in the
tangler subgrid, but I had to! I got a signal, 'BoUix the
grid tonight or wheep, some day you'll be in the Yard
and they'll static you." What could I do, Cap'n? I didn't
want to"
O'Leary pressed: "Who did the signal come from?" But
the con only shook his head, perspiring the more.
The warden asked faintly, "What's he saying?"
O'Leary rolled his eyes to heaven. And this was the
wardencouldn't even understand shoptalk from the
mouths of his own inmates!
He translated: "He got orders from the prison under-
ground to short-circuit the electronic units in the tangler
circuit. They threatened to kill him if he didn't."
The warden drummed with his fingers on the desk.
"The tangler field, eh? My, yes. That is important.
You'd better get it fixed, O'Leary. Right away."
"Fixed? Warden, lookwho's going to fix it?" O'Leary
demanded. "You know as well as I do that every me-
chanic in the prison is a con. Even if one of the guards
would do a thing like thatand I'd bust him myself if he
did!he wouldn't know where to start. That's mechanic
work."
The warden swallowed. He had to admit that O'Leary
was right. Naturally nobody but a mechanicand a spe-
cialist electrician from a particular subgroup of the greaser
class at thatcould fix something like the tangler field
generators. That was a fact of life. These days, he thought
pathetically, the world was so complex that it took a
specialist to do anything at all.
He said absently, "Well, that's true enough. After all,
'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' you know."
O'Leary took a deep breathhe needed it.
He beckoned to the guard at the door. "Take this
greaser out of herel" The con shambled out, his head
hanging.
O'Leary turned to the warden and spread his hands.
"Warden," he said reasonably, "don't you see how this
thing is building up? Let's not just wait for the place to
explode in our faces! Let me take a squad into Block 0
before it's too late."
The warden pursed his lips thoughtfully and cocked his
head, as though he were trying to find some trace of merit
in an unreasonable request.
He said at last, "No."
O'Leary made a passionate sound that was trying to be
bad language; but he was too raging mad to articulate it.
He walked stiffly away from the limp, silent warden and
stared out the window.
At least, he told himself, he hadn't gone to pieces. It
was his doing, not the warden's, that all the off-duty
guards had been dragged double-time back to the prison,
his doing that they were now ringed around the outer
walls or scattered on extra-man patrols throughout the
prison.
It was something, but O'Leary couldn't believe that it
was enough. He'd been in touch with half a dozen of the
details inside the prison on the intercom, and all of them
had reported the same thing. In all of E-G not a single
prisoner was asleep. They were talking back and forth be-
tween the cells, and the guards couldn't shut them up; they
were listening to concealed radios, and the guards didn't
dare make a shake-down to find them; they were working
themselves up to something. To what?
O'Leary didn't want ever to find out what. He wanted
to go in there with a couple of the best guards he could
get his hands onshoot his way into the Green Sleeves if
he had toand clean up the infection.
But the warden said no.
O'Leary moaned and stared balefully at the hovering
helicopters.
The warden was the warden! He was placed in that
position through the meticulously careful operations of
the Civil Service machinery, maintained in that position
year after year through the penetrating annual inquiries
of the Reclassification Board. It was subversive to think
that the Board could have made a mistake!
But O'Leary was absolutely sure that the warden was a
scared, ineffectual jerk.
The interphone was ringing again.
The warden picked up the handpiece and held it limply
at arm's length, his eyes fixed glassily on the wall. It was
Sauer from the Green Sleeves again; O'Leary could hear
his maddened bray.
"I warned you, warden!" O'Leary could see the big
con's contorted face in miniature, in the viewscreen of the
interphone. The grin was broad and jolly; the snake's eyes
poisonously cold. "I'm going to give you five minutes,
warden, you hear? Five minutes! And if there isn't a medic
in here in five minutes to take care of my boy Flock
your guards have had it! I'm going to chop off a hand and
throw it out the window, you hear me? And five minutes
later another hand! And five minutes later"
The warden groaned weakly. "I've called for the prison
medic, Sauer. Honestly I have! I'm sure he's coming as
rapidly as he"
"Five minutes!" And the ferociously grinning face dis-
appeared.
O'Leary leaned forward. "Warden. Warden, let me take
a squad in there!"
The warden stared at him for a blank moment. "Squad?
No, O'Leary. What's the use of a squad? It's a medic I
have to get in there. I have a responsibility to those
guards, and if I don't get a medic"
A cold, calm voice from the door: "I am here, warden!"
O'Leary and the warden both jumped up. The medic
nodded slightly. "You may sit down."
"Oh, doctor! Thank heaven you're here." The warden
was falling all over himself, getting a chair for his guest,
flustering about.
O'Leary said sharply, "Wait a minute, warden. You
can't let the doctor go in alone!"
"He isn't alone!" The doctor's interne came from be-
hind him, scowling belligerently at O'Leary. He was
youngish, his beard pale and silky, a long way from his
first practice. "I'm with him!"
O'Leary put a strain on his patience. "They'll eat you
up in there, Doc! Those are the worst cons in the prison.
They've got two hostages alreadywhat's the use of giv-
ing them two more?"
The medic fixed him with his eyes. He was a tail man
and he wore his beard proudly. "Guard, do you think you
can prevent me from healing a sufferer?" He folded his
hands over his abdomen and turned to leave.
The inteme stepped aside and bowed his head. O'Leary
surrendered.
"All right, you can go. But I'm coming with youwith
a squad!"
Inmate Sue-Ann Bradley cowered in her cell.
The Green Sleeves was jumping. She had neverno,
never, she told herself wretchedlythought that it would
be anything like this. She listened unbelieving to the
noise the released prisoners were making, smashing the
chairs and commodes in their cells, screaming threats at
the bound and terrified guards.
They were likelikeanimals!
She faced the thought, with fear, and with the sorrow
of a murdered belief that was worse than fear. It was bad
that she was, she knew, in danger of dying right here and
now; but what was even worse was that the principles that
had brought her to the Jug were dying too.
Wipes were not the same as civil-service people!
A bull's roar from the corridor, and a shocking crash
of glass; that was Flock, and apparently he had smashed
the TV interphone.
"What in the world are they doing?" Inmate Bradley
sobbed to herself. It was beyond comprehension. They
were yelling words that made no sense to her, threatening
punishments that she could barely imagine on the guards.
Sauer and Flock, they were laborers; some of the other
rioting cons were clerks, mechanicseven civil-service or
professionals, for all she could tell. But she could hardly
understand any of them. Why was the quiet little Chinese
clerk in Cell Six setting fire to his bed?
There did seem to be a pattern, of sortsthe laborers
were rocketing about, breaking things at random; the
mechanics were pleasurably sabotaging the electronic and
plumbing installations; the white-collar categories were
finding their dubious joys in less direct waysliking set-
ting fire to a bed. But what a mad pattern!
The more Sue-Ann saw of them, the less she under-
stood.
It wasn't just that they talked differentshe had spent
endless hours studying the various patois of shoptalk, and
it  had  defeated  her;  but  it  wasn't just  that.  It  was  bad
enough when she couldn't understand the wordsas when
that trusty Mathias had ordered her in wipe shoptalk to
mop out her cell.
But what was even worse was not understanding the
thought behind the words.
Sue-Ann Bradley had consecrated her young life to the
belief that all men were created free, and equaland
alike. Or alike in all the things that mattered, anyhow.
Alike in hopes, alike in motives, alike in virtues. She had
turned her back on a decent civil-service family and a
promising civil-service career to join the banned and de-
spised Association for the Advancement of the Categoried
Classes
Screams from the corridor outside.
Sue-Ann leaped to the door of her cell to see Sauer
clutching at one of the guards. The guard's hands were
tied but his feet were free; he broke loose from the clumsy
clown with the serpent's eyes, almost fell, ran toward Sue-
Ann.
There was nowhere else to run. The guard, moaning
and gasping, tripped, slid, caught himself and stumbled
into her cell. "Please!" he begged. "That crazy Sauer
he's going to cut my hand off! For heaven's sake, ma'am
stop him!"
Sue-Ann stared at him, between terror and tears. Stop
Sauer! If only she could stop Sauer. The big red-head was
lurching stiffly toward themraging, but not so angry
that the water-moccasin eyes showed heat.
"Come here, you figger scum!" he brayed.
The epithet wasn't even closethe guard was civil-
service through and throughbut it was like a reviving
whip-sting to Sue-Ann Bradley.
"Watch your language, Mr. Saueri" she snapped, in-
congruously.
Sauer stopped dead and biinked.
"Don't you dare hurt him!" she warned. "Don't you see,
Mr. Sauer, you're playing into their hands? They're trying
to divide us. They pit mechanic against clerk, laborer
against armed forces. And you're helping them! Brother
Sauer, I beg"
The red-head spat deliberately on the floor.
He licked his lips, and grinned an amiable clown's
grin, and said in his cheerful, buffoon bray: "Auntie, go
verb your adjective adjective noun."
Sue-Ann Bradley gasped and turned white.
She had known such words existedbut only theoreti-
cally. She had never expected to hear them. And cer-
tainly, she would never have believed she would hear
them, applied to her, from the lips of a . . . a laborer. At
her knees, the guard shrieked and fell to the floor.
"Sauer, Sauer!" A panicky bellow from the corridor;
the red-headed giant hesitated. "Sauer, come on out here!
There's a million guards coming up the stairs. Looks like
trouble!"
Sauer said hoarsely to the unconscious guard, "I'll take
care of you." And he looked blankly at the girl, and shook
his head, and hurried back to the corridor.
Guards were coming, all rightnot a million of them,
but half a dozen or more. And leading them all was the
medic, calm, bearded face looking straight ahead, hands
clasped before him, ready to heal the sick, comfort the
aged or bring new life into the world.
"Hold it!" shrieked little Flock, crouched over the
agonizing blister on his abdomen, gun in hand, peering
insanely down the steps. "Hold it or"
"Shut up." Sauer called softly to the approaching
group: "Let the doc come up. Nobody else!"
The inteme faltered; the guards stopped dead; the medic
said calmly:  "I must have my inteme with me." He
glanced at the barred gate wonderingly.
Sauer hesitated. "Well all right. Bat no guards!"
A few yards away Sue-Aim Bradley was stuffing the
syncoped form of the guard into her small washroom.
It was time to take a stand.
No more cowering, she told herself desperately. No
more waiting. She closed the door on the guard, still un-
conscious, and stood grimly before it. Him, at least, she
would save if she could. They could get him, but only over
her dead body. . ..
Or anywayshe thought with a sudden throbbing in
her throatover her body.

VI
After O'Leary and the medic left, the warden tottered to
a chairbut not for long. His secretary appeared, eyes
bulging. "The governor!" hegasped.
Warden .Schluckebier managed to say: "Why, Gover-
nor! How good of you to come"
The governor shook him off and held the door open for
the men who had come with him. There were reporters
from all the news services, officials from the township gov-
ernments within the city-state. There was an air Gl with
the major's leaves on his collar"Liaison, sir," he ex-
plained crisply to the warden, "just in case you have any
orders for our men up there." There were nearly a dozen
others.
The warden was quite overcome.
The governor rapped out: "Warden, no criticism of
you, of course, but I've come to take personal charge. I'm
superseding you under Rule Twelve, Para. A, of the Uni-
form Civil Service Code. Right?"
"Oh, right!" cried the warden, incredulous with joy.
"The situation is badperhaps worse than you think.
I'm seriously concerned about the hostages those men have
in there. The guards, the medicand I had a call from
Senator Bradley a short time ago"
"Senator Bradley?" echoed the warden.
"Senator Sebastian Bradley. One of our foremost civil
servants," the governor said firmly. "It so happens that his
daughter is in Block 0, as an inmate."
The warden closed his eyes. He tried to swallow, but
the throat muscles were paralyzed.
"There is no question," the governor went on briskly,
"about the propriety of her being thereshe was duly
convicted of a felonious act, namely conspiracy and in-
citement to riot. But you see the position."
The warden saw. All too well the warden saw.
"Therefore," said the governor, "I intend to go in to
Block 0 myself. Sebastian Bradley is an old and personal
friendas well," he emphasized, "as being a senior mem-
ber of the Reclassification Board. I understand a medic is
going to Block 0. I shall go with him."
The warden managed to sit up straight. "He's gone. I
meanthey already left. Governor. But I assure you. Miss
BradInmate Bradleythat is, the young lady is in no
danger. I have already taken precautions," he said, gain-
ing confidence as he listened to himself talk. "I, uh, I was
deciding on a course of action as you came in. See, Gov-
ernor, the guards on the walls are all armed. All they have
to do is fire a couple of rounds into the Yardand then
the copters could start dropping tear gas and light frag-
mentation bombs and"
The governor was already at the door. "You will not,"
he said; and, "Now, which way did they go?"
O'Leary was in the Yard, and he was smelling trouble,
loud and strong.
The first he knew that the rest of the prison had caught
the riot fever was when the lights flared on in Cell Block
A. "That Sodaro!" he snarled; but there wasn't time to
worry about that Sodaro. He grabbed the rest of his guard
detail and double-timed it toward the New Building, leav-
ing the medic and a couple of guards walking sedately to-
ward the Old. Block A, on the New Building's lowest tier
was already coming to life; a dozen yards, and Blocks B
and C lighted up.
And a dozen yards more, and they could hear the yell-
ing; and it wasn't more than a minute before the building
doors opened.
The cons had taken over three more blocks. How?
O'Leary didn't take time even to guess. The inmates were
piling out into the Yard. He took one look at the rushing
mob. Crazy! It was Wilmer Lafon leading the rioters, with
a guard's gun and a voice screaming threats! But O'Leary
didn't take time to worry about an honor prisoner gone
bad, either. "Let's get out of here!" he bellowed to the de-
tachment, and they ran. . . .
Just plain ran. Cut and ran, scattering as they went.
"Wait!" screamed O'Leary, but they weren't waiting.
Cursing himself for letting them get out of hand, O'Leary
salvaged two guards and headed on the run for the Old
Building, huge and dark, all but the topmost lights of
Block 0. They saw the medic and his escort disappearing
into the bulk of the Old Building; and they saw something
else. There were inmates between them and the Old Build-
ing! The Shops Building lay betweenwith a dozen more
cell blocks over the workshops that gave it its nameand
there was a milling rush of activity around its entrance,
next to the laundry shed
The laundry shed.
O'Leary stood stock still. Lafon talking to the laundry
cons; Lafon leading the break-out from Block A. The little
greaser who was a trusty in the Shops Building sabotaging
the Yard's tangler circuit. Sauer and Flock taking over
the Green Sleeves with a manufactured knife and a lot of
guts. Did it fit together? Was it all part of a plan?
That was something to find outbut not just then.
"Come on," O'Leary cried to the two guards, and they
raced for the temporary safety of the main gates.
The whole prison was up and yelling now.
O'Leary could hear scattered shots from the beat guards
on the wallOver their heads, over their heads! he prayed
silently. And there were other shots that seemed to come
from inside the wallsguards shooting, or convicts with
guards' guns, he couldn't tell which. The Yard was full of
convicts now, in bunches and clumps; but none near the
gate. And they seemed to have lost some of their drive.
They were milling around, lit by the searchlights from the
wall, yelling and making a lot of noise . . . but going no-
where in particular. Waiting for a leader, O'Leary thought,
and wondered briefly what had become of Lafon.
"You Captain O'Leary?" somebody demanded.
O'Leary turned and biinked. Good Lord, the governor!
He was coming through the gate, waving aside the gate
guards, alone. "You him?" the governor repeated. "All
right, glad I found you. I'm going in to Block 0 with you!"
O'Leary swallowed, and waved at the teeming cons.
True, there were none immediately nearbybut there
were plenty in the Yard! Riots meant breaking things up;
already the inmates had started to break up the machines
in the laundry shed and the athletic equipment in the Yard
lockers; when they found a couple of choice breakables
like O'Leary and the Governor they'd have a ball! "But
Governor"
"But my foot! Can you get me in there or can't you?"
O'Leary gauged their chances. It wasn't more than fifty
feet to the main entrance to the Old Buildingnot at the
moment guarded, since all the guards were in hiding or on
the walls, and not as yet being invaded by the inmates at
large.
He said, "You're the boss! Hold on a minute" The
searchlights were on the bare Yard cobblestones in front
of them; in a moment the searchlights danced away.
"Come on!" cried O'Leary, and jumped for the en-
trance. The governor was with him, and a pair of the
guards came stumbling after.
They made it to the Old Building.
Inside the entrance they could hear the noise from out-
side and the yelling of the inmates who were still in their
cells; but around them was nothing but gray steel walls
and the stairs going up to Block 0. "Up!" panted O'Leary,
and they clattered up the steel s~eps.
They nearly made it.
They would have made itif it hadn't been for the
honor inmate, Wilmer Lafon, who knew what he was after
and had headed for the Green Sleeves through the back
way. In fact, they did make itbut not the way they
planned. "Get out of the way!" yelled O'Leary at Lafon
and the half-dozen inmates with him; and "Go to hell!"
screamed Lafon, charging; and it was a rough-and-tumble
fight, and O'Leary's party lost it, fair and square.
So when they got to Block 0 it was with the governor
marching before a convict-held gun, and with O'Leary
cold unconscious, a lump from a gun-butt on the side of
his head.
As they came up the stairs, Sauer was howling at the
medic: "You got to fix up my boy! He's dying, and all
you do is sit there!"
The medic said patiently, "My son, I've dressed his
wound. He is under sedation, and I must rest. There will
be other casualties."
Sauer raged, and he danced around; but that was as far
as it went. Even Sauer wouldn't attack a medic! He would
as soon strike an Attorney, or even a Director of Funerals.
It wasn't merely that they were professionalseven among
the professional class, they were special; not superior, ex-
actly, but apart. They certainly were not for the likes of
Sauer to fool with, and Sauer knew it.
"Somebody's coming!" cried one of the other freed in-
mates.
Sauer jumped to the head of the steps, saw that Lafon
was leading the group, stepped back, saw who Lafon's
helpers were carrying, and leaped forward again. "Cap'n
O'Leary!" he roared. "Gimme!"
"Shut up," said Wilmer Lafon, and pushed the big red-
head out of the way. Sauer's jaw dropped, and the snake
eyes opened wide.
"Wilmer," he protested feebly. But that was all the
protest he made, because the snake's eyes had seen that
Lafon held a gun. He stood back, the big hands half out-
stretched toward the unconscious guard captain, O'Leary,
and the cold eyes became thoughtful.
And then he saw who else was with the party. "Wil-
mer!" he roared. "You got the governor there!"
Lafon nodded. "Throw them in a cell," he ordered, and
sat down on a guard's stool, breathing hard. It had been a
fine fight on the steps, before he and his boys had subdued
the governor and the guards; but Wilmer Lafon wasn't
used to fighting. Even six years in the Jug hadn't turned
an architect into a laborer; physical exertion simply was
not his metier.
Sauer said coaxingly, "Wilmer, won't you leave me
have O'Leary for a while? If it wasn't for me and Flock
you'd still be in A Block, and"
"Shut up," Lafon said again, gently enough, but he
waved the gun muzzle. He drew a deep breath, glanced
around him and grinned. "If it wasn't for you and Flock,"
he mimicked. "If it wasn't for you and Flock! Sauer, you
wipe clown, do you think it took brains to file down a shiv
and start things rolling? If it wasn't for me, you and Flock
would have beat up a few guards, and had your kicks for
half an hour, and then the whole prison would fall in on
you! It was me, Wilmer Lafon, that set things up, and you
know it!" He was yelling, and suddenly he realized he was
yelling. And what was the use, he demanded of himself
contemptuously, of trying to argue with a bunch of lousy
wipes and greasers? They never understand the long, soul-
killing hours of planning and sweat; they wouldn't realize
the importance of the careful timingof arranging that
the laundry cons would start a disturbance in the Yard
right after the Green Sleeves hard-timers kicked off the
riot; of getting the little greaser Hiroko to short-circuit the
Yard field so the laundry cons could start their disturb-
ance. It took a professional to organize and planyes,
and to make sure that he himself was out of it until every-
thing was ripe, so that if anything went wrong he was all
right It took somebody like Wilmer Lafona profes-
sional, who had spent six years too long in the Jug
And who would shortly be getting out.

VII
Any prison is a ticking bomb. Estates-General was in
process of going off.
From the Green Sleeves where the trouble had started,
clear out to the trusty farms that ringed the walls, every
inmate was up and jumping. Some were still in their cells
the scared ones, the decrepit oldsters, the short-termers
who didn't dare risk their early discharge. But for every
man in his cell, a dozen were out and yelling.
A torch, licking as high as the hanging helicopters,
blazed up from the Yardtiiat was the laundry shed. Why
burn the laundry? The cons couldn't have said. It was
bumable, and it was thereburn it!
The Yard lay open to the wrath of the helicopters, but
the helicopters made no move. The cobblestones were
solidly covered with milling men. The guards were on the
walls, sighting down their guns; the helicopter bombardiers
had their fingers on the bomb trips. There had been a few
rounds fired over the heads of the rioters, at first.
Nothing since.
In the milling mob, the figures clustered in groups. The
inmates from Honor Block A huddled under the guards'
guns at the angle of the wall. They had clubs, as all the
inmates had clubs, but they weren't using them.
Honor Block Aon the outside, civil service and pro-
fessionals. On the inside, the trusties, the "good" cons.
They weren't the type for clubs.
With all of the inmates, you looked at them and you
wondered what twisted devil had got into their heads to
land them in the Jug. Oh, perhaps you could understand
ita little bit at leastin the case of the figgers in Blocks
B and C, the greasers in the Shop Buildingthat sort. It
was easy enough for some of the Categoried Classes to
commit a crime, and thereby land in jail. Who could
blame a wipe for trying to "pass," if he thought he could
get away with it? But when he didn't get away with it, he
wound up in the Jug, and that was logical enough. And
greasers liked civil-service women, everyone knew that.
There was almost a sort of logic to iteven if it was a sort
of inevitable logic that made decent civil-service people
see red. You had to enforce the laws against rape if, for
instance, a greaser should ask an innocent young female
postal clerk for a date. But you could understand what
drove him to it. The Jug was full of criminals of that sort.
And the Jug was the place for them.
But what about Honor Block A?
Why would a Wilmer Lafona certified public archi-
tect, a Professional by categorydraw a portrait in oils
and get himself jugged for malpractice? Why -would a
dental nursepractically a medicsneak back into the
laboratory at night and cast an upper plate for her
mother? Greasers' work was greasers' work; she knew
what the penalty was. She must have realized she would
be caught.
But she had done it. And she had been caught; and
there she was, this wild night, huddled under the heli-
copters, feebly waving the handle of a floor mop.
It was a club. And she wasn't the type for clubs.
She shivered and turned to the stock convict next to
her. "Why don't they break down the gate?" she de-
manded, "How long are we going to hang around here,
waiting for the guards to get organized and pick us off?"
The convict next to her sighed and wiped his glasses
with a beefy hand. Once he had been an Income-Tax Ac-
countant, disbarred and convicted on three counts of im-
personating an attorney when he took the liberty of mak-
ing changes in a client's lease. He snorted, "Damn wipes!
Do they expect us to do their dirty work?"
The two of them glared angrily and fearfully at the
other convicts in the Yard.
And the other convicts, huddled greaser with greaser,
wipe with wipe, glared ragingly back. It wasn't their place
to plan the strategy of a prison break.
Captain Uam O'Leary muttered groggily, "They don't
want to escape, all they want is to make trouble. I know
cons." He came fully awake, sat up and focused his eyes.
His head was hammering.
That fgil, that Bradley, was leaning over him. She
looked scared and sick. "Sit still! Sauer is just plain crazy
listen to them yelling out there!"
O'Leary sat up and looked around, one hand holding
his drumming skull.
"They do so want to escape," said Sue-Ann Bradley.
"Listen to what they're saying!"
O'Leary discovered that he was in a cell. There was a
battle royal going on outside. Men were yelling, but he
couldn't see them.
He jumped up, remembering. "The governor!"
Sue-Ann Bradley said, "He's all right. I think he is,
anyway. He's in the cell right next to us, with a couple
guards. I guess they came up with you." She shivered, as
the yells in the corridor rose. "Sauer is angry at the
medic," she explained. "He wants him to fix Flock up so
they can'crush out,' I think he said. The medic says he
can't do it. You see, Flock got burned pretty badly with
a knife he madesomething about the tanglefoot field"
"Eddy currents," said O'Leary dizzily.
"I guess so. Anyway, the medic"
"Never mind the medic. What's Lafon doing?"
"Lafon? The black one?" Sue-Ann Bradley frowned.
"I didn't know his name. He started the whole thing, the
way it sounds. They're waiting for the mob down in the
Yard to break out, and then they're going to make a
break"
"Wait a minute," growled O'Leary. His head was be-
ginning to clear. "What about you? Are you in on this?"
She hung between laughter and tears. Finally: "Do I
look like I'm in on this?"
O'Leary took stock. Somehow, somewhere, the girl had
got a length of metal pipefrom the plumbing, maybe.
She was holding it in one hand, supporting him with the
other. There were two other guards in the cell, both out
coldone from O'Leary's squad, the other, O'Leary
guessed, a deck guard who had been on duty when the
trouble started. "I wouldn't let them in," she said wildly.
"I told them they'd have to kill me before they could
touch that guard."
O'Leary said suspiciously, "What about you? You be-
longed to that Double-A-C, didn't you? You were pretty
anxious to get in the Green Sleeves, disobeying Auntie
Mathias' orders. Are you sure you didn't know this was
going to"
It was too much. She dropped the pipe, buried her head
in her hands. He couldn't tell if she laughed or wept, but
he could tell that it hadn't been like that at all.
"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, and touched her on the
shoulder. He turned and looked out the little barred win-
dow, because he couldn't think of any other way to apolo-
gize. He heard the wavering beat in the air, and saw them
bobbing a hundred yards up, their wide metal vanes
fluttering and hissing from the jets at the tips. The 01
copters. Waitingas everyone seemed to be waiting.
Sue-Ann Bradley demanded shaloly, "Is anything the
matter?"
O'Leary turned away. It was astonishing, he thought,
what a different perspective he had on those helicopter
bombers from inside Block 0. Once he had cursed the
warden for not ordering tear gas, at least, dropped. . . .
He said harshly, "Nothing. Just that the copters have the
place surrounded."
"Does it make any difference?"
He shrugged. Does it make a difference? The difference
between trouble and tragedy, or so it now seemed to Cap-
tain O'Leary. The riot was trouble. They could handle it,
one way or anotherit was his job, any guard's job, to
handle prison trouble.
But to bring the GIs into it was to invite race riot. Not
prison riotrace riot. Even the declassed scum in the Jug
would fight back against the GIs. They prere used to hav-
ing the civil-service guards over themthat was what
guards were for. Civil-service presidents presided, and
civil-service governors governed, and civil-service guards
guarded. What else? It was their jobas clerking was a
figger's job, and mechanics were a greaser's, and pick-and-
shovel strong-arm work was a wipe's. But the armed serv-
icestheir job was, theoretically, to defend the country
against forces outside. Race riot. The cons wouldn't stand
still under attack from the GIs.
But how could you tell that to a girl like this Bradley?
O'Leary glanced at her covertly. She looked all right.
Rather nice-looking, if anything. But he hadn't forgotten
why she was in E-G. Joining a terrorist organization, the
Association for the Advancement of the Categoried
Classes. Advocating desegregationactually getting up on
a street comer and proposing that greasers' children be
allowed to go to school with Gl's, that wipes intermarry
with civil service. Good Lord, they'd be suggesting that
doctors eat with laymen next!
The girl said evenly, "Don't look at me that way. I'm
not a monster."
O'Leary coughed. "I, uh, sorry. I didn't know I was
staring." She looked at him with cold eyes. "I mean," he
said, "you don't look like anybody who'd get mixed up in,
well, miscegenation."
"Miscegenation! Dirty mind!" she blazed. "You're all
alike, you talk about the mission of the Categoried Classes
and the rightness of segregationand it's always just the
one thing that's in your minds. Sex! You'reyou're trying
to turn the clock back," she sobbed. "I'll tell you this for
sure. Captain O'Leary! I'd rather marry a decent, hard-
working clerk any day than the sort of low-grade civil-
service trash I've seen around here!"
O'Leary cringed. He couldn't help it. Funny, he told
himself, I thought I was shockproofbut this goes too far!
A bull-roar from the corridor. Sauer. O'Leary spun.
The big red-head was yelling: "Bring the governor out
here. Lafon wants to talk to him!"
O'Leary went to the door of the cell, fast.
A slim, pale con from Block A was pushing the gover-
nor down the hall, toward Sauer and Lafon. The governor
was a strong man, but he didn't struggle. His face was as
composed and remote as the medic's; if he was afraid, he
concealed it extremely well.
Sue-Ann Bradley slipped beside O'Leary. "What's hap-
pening?"
He kept his eyes on what was going on. "Lafon is go-
ing to try to use the governor as a shield, I think." The
voice of Lafon was loud, but the noises outside made it
hard to understand. But O'Leary could make out what
the dark ex-professional was saying: "know damn well
you did something. But what? Why don't they crush out?"
Mumble-mumble from the governor; O'Leary couldn't
hear the words. But he could see the effect of them in
Lafon's face, hear the rage in Lafon's voice. "Don't call
me a liar, you ciwy punk! You did something. I had it all
planned, do you hear me? The laundry boys were going
to rush the gate, the Block A bunch would followand
then I was going to breeze right through. But you loused
it up.  You must've!" His voice was rising to a scream.
O'Leary, watching tautly from the cell, thought: He's go-
ing to break. He can't hold it in much longer.
"All right!" shouted Lafon, and even Saner, looming
behind him, looked alarmed. "It doesn't matter what you
did. I've got you now, and you are going to get me out of
here. You hear? I've got this gun, and the two of us are
going to walk right out, through the gate, and if anybody
tries to stop us"
"Hey," said Sauer, waking up.
"'d anybody tries to stop us, you'll get a bullet right
in"
"Hey!" Sauer was roaring loud as Lafon himself now.
"What's this talk about the two of you? You aren't going
to leave me and Flock!"
"Shut up," Lafon said conversationally, without taking
his eyes off the governor.
But Sauer, just then, was not the man to say "shut up"
to, and especially he was not a man to take your eyes away
from.
"That's torn it," O'Leary said aloud. The girl started
to say something.
But he was no longer there to hear.
It looked very much as though Sauer and Lafon were
going to tangle. And when they did, it was the end of the
line for the governor.
O'Leary hurtled out of the sheltering cell and skidded
down the corridor. Lafon's face was a hawk's face, gleam-
ing with triumph; as he saw O'Leary coming toward him,
the hawk sneer froze. He brought the gun up, but O'Leary
was a fast man.
O'Leary leaped on the lithe black honor prisoner. Lafon
screamed, and clutched; and O'Leary's lunging weight
drove him back against the wall. Lafon's arm smacked
against the steel grating and the gun went flying. The two
of them clinched and fell, gouging, to the floor.
O'Leary had the advantage; he hammered the con's
head against the deck, hard enough to split a skull. And
perhaps it split Lafon's, because the dark face twitched,
and froth appeared at the lips; and the body slacked.
One down!
And Sauer was charging. O'Leary wriggled sidewise,
and the big red-head blundered crashing into the steel
grate. Sauer fell, and O'Leary caught at him. He tried the
hammering of the head, he swarmed on top of the huge
clown. But Sauer only roared the louder. The bull body
surged under O'Leary, and then Sauer was on top and
O'Leary wasn't breathing. Not at alL
Everything was choking black dust.
Good-by, Sue-Ann, O'Leary said silently, without
meaning to say anything of the kind; and even then he
wondered why he was saying it.
O'Leary heard a gun explode beside his head.
Amazing, he thought. I'm breathing again! The chok-
ing hands were gone from his throat.
It took him a moment to realize that it was Sauer who
had taken the bullet, not him. Sauer who now lay dead
. . . not O'Leary. But he realized it, when he rolled over,
and looked up, and saw the girl with the gun still in her
hand, staring at him and weeping.
He sat up. The two guards still able to walk were
backing Sue-Ann Bradley up; the governor was looking
proud as an eagle, pleased as a mother hen.
The Green Sleeves was back in the hands of law and
order.
The medic came toward O'Leary, hands folded. "My
son," he said, "if your throat needs"
O'Leary interrupted him. "I don't need a thing, Doc!
I've got everything I want, right now."
VIII
Inmate Sue-Ann Bradley cried, "They're coming!
O'Leary, they're coming!"
The guards who had once been hostages clattered down
the steps to meet the party. The cons from the Green
Sleeves were back in their cells. The medic, having finished
his chores on O'Leary himself, paced meditatively out
into the wake of the riot, where there was plenty to keep
him busy. A faintly bilious expression tinctured his carven
face. He had not liked Lafon or Sauer.
The party of fresh guards appeared, and efficiently
began re-locking the cells of the Green Sleeves. "Excuse
me, Cap'n," said one, taking Sue-Ann Bradley by the
arm, "I'll just put this one back"
"I'll take care of her," said Liam O'Leary. He looked
at her sideways as he rubbed the bruises on his face.
The governor tapped him on the shoulder. "Come
along," he said, looking so proud of himself, so pleased.
"Let's go out in the Yard for a breath of fresh air." He
smiled contentedly at Sue-Ann Bradley. "You too," he
said.
O'Leary protested instinctively, "But she's an inmate!"
"And I'm a governor. Come along."
They walked out into the Yard. The air was fresh, all
right. A handful of cons, double-guarded by sleepy and
irritable men from the day shift, were hosing down the
rubble on the cobblestones. The Yard was a mess; but it
was quiet now. The helicopters were still riding their picket
line, glowing softly in the early light that promised sun-
rise.
"My car," the governor said quietly to a state police-
man who appeared from nowhere. The trooper snapped
a salute and trotted away.
"I killed a man," said Sue-Ann Bradley, looking ab-
stracted and a little ill.
"You saved a man," corrected the governor. "Don't
weep for that Lafon. He was willing to kill a thousand men
if he had to, to break out of here."
"But he never did break out," said Sue-Ann.
The governor stretched contentedly. "Of course not. He
never had a chance. Lafon spent too much time in the
Jug; he forgot what the world was like. Laborers and
clerks join together in a break-out? It would never happen.
They don't even speak the same languageas my young
friend here has discovered."
Sue-Ann blazed: "I still believe in the equality of man!"
"Oh, please do," the Governor said, straight-faced.
"There's nothing wrong with that! Your father and I are
perfectly willing to admit that men are equal; but we can't
admit that all men are the same. Use your eyes! What you
believe in is your own businessbut," he added, "when
your beliefs extend to setting fire to segregated public lava-
tories as a protest move, which is what got you arrested,
you apparently need to be taught a lesson. Well, perhaps
you've learned it. You were a help here tonight, and that
counts for a lot. . . ."
Captain O'Leary said, face fun-owed, "What about the
warden, Governor? They say the category system is what
makes the world go round, it fits the right man to the right
job and keeps him there. But look at Momma Schlucke-
bier! He fell apart at the seams. He"
"Turn it around, O'Leary."
"Turn?"
The governor nodded. "You've got it backwards. Not
the right man for the jobthe right job for the man!
We've got Schluckebier on our hands, see? He's been
born; it's too late to do anything about that. He will go
to pieces in an emergency. So where do we put him?"
O'Leary stubbornly clamped his jaw, frowning.
"We put him," the governor went on gently, "where the
best thing to do in a crisis is to go to pieces! Why,
O'Leary, you get some hot-headed man of action in here,
and every time an inmate sneezes in E-G youTI have
bloodshed! And there's no harm in a prison riot. Let the
poor devils work off steam. I wouldn't have bothered to
get out of bed for itexcept I was worried about the
hostages. So I came down to make sure they were pro-
tected."
O'Leary's jaw dropped. "But yon were"
The governor nodded. "I was a hostage myself. That's
one way to protect them, isn't it? By giving the cons a
hostage that's worth more to them."
He yawned, and looked around for Ms car. "So the
world keeps going around," he said. "Everybody is some-
body else's outgroup, and maybe it's a bad thing, but did
you ever stop to realize that we don't have wars any more?
The categories stick tightly together. Who is to say that
that's a bad thing?" He grinned. "Reminds me of a story,
if you two will pay attention to me long enough to listen.
There was a meetingthis is an old, old story a neigh-
borhood meeting of the leaders of the two biggest women's
groups on the block. There were eighteen Irish ladies from
the Church Auxiliary and three Jewish ladies from B'nai
B'rith. The first thing they did was have an election for a
temporary chairwoman. Twenty-one votes were cast. Mrs.
Grossinger from B'nai B'rith got three, and Mrs. O'Flah-
erty from the Auxiliary got eighteen.  So when Mrs.
Murphy came up to congratulate Mrs. O'Flaherty after
the election, she whispered, 'Good for you! But isn't it
terrible, the way these Jews stick together?' "
He stood up and waved wildly, as his long official car
came poking hesitantly through the gate. "Well," he said
professionally, "that's that. As we politicians say, any
questions?"
Sue-Ann hesitated. "Well," she said"yes, I guess I
do have a question. What's a Jew?"
Maybe there was an answer. And maybe the question
answered itself; and maybe the governor, riding sleepily
homeward in the dawn, himself learned something from it
which was true: That a race's greatest learning may be in
the things it has learned enough to forget.