Out of the Ashes

Bellford laughed. “Perhaps incredible—to you people—but certainly not impossible. Sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and social anthropologists have been preaching for years that the death penalty and harsh laws would not be a deterrent for criminals. Many people believed them; I never did. Our society proves they were wrong. One day a week—this day—I come in in the afternoon to hear cases. I usually read a book to pass the time. Obviously, we are doing something right.”

“But you are selective as to the caliber of person you will allow to live in the Tri-states?”

“Oh my, yes.”

“Then how do you know harsh laws would work in the other states?”

“I don't. But you don't know that they won't, because you people have never tried them. Probably never will. But that's your problem; we've solved ours. Understand this: in the Tri-states, murder, kidnapping, armed robbery, the selling of hard drugs, and treason, are all punishable by the death penalty. And lesser crimes—and that is a paradoxical statement—are still treated in a very harsh manner.”

“Your system of justice does not allow much leeway for human error, Mr. Bellford.”

“More than you might realize, sir. We have counselors ready and willing to talk with anyone who might have a problem—twenty-four hours, around the clock. And our people do use them. We do not have a pressure-free society. But it's as close as we could come to it.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Bellford. I don't think I'd like to live in your society.”

“Your choice,” the reporter was informed. “And ours.”

Barney and his crew drove through the countryside as the press scattered over the thousands of miles of the Tri-states. They admired the neat, well-kept homes, the tidy fields and meadows, and the open friendliness of the people. No one seemed to be in any great hurry to get anywhere, and the press people realized then that the pace was indeed slower in the Tri-states. They were invited into homes by people they did not know, for coffee and cake and pie and home-baked bread. Homes were open, with doors unlocked; keys left in the ignitions of vehicles.

“Don't let a good boy go bad,” one of Barney's crew said sarcastically. “I always did think that was a bunch of shit. Good boys don't steal cars. Punks steal cars.”

Barney glanced at him. “I never knew you felt that way, Jimmy.”

“You never asked me.”

Toward the end of the second day, Barney and his crew stopped to sit in silence for a time, digesting all they'd seen.

Barney sighed and shook his head. “Ted, we haven't seen one shack in two days. I have seen no signs of poverty. I have not seen anyone who looked poor or unhappy about anything. Why is everyone so contented in this wacko place?”

“Because they have what they want. I couldn't live here; I'll admit that. I like to whore around too much.” He grinned. “I'd get shot for fooling around with someone's wife. O.K., so I couldn't live here—I haven't been invited, have I? But these folks like it here. Hell, why doesn't the government just leave them alone and let them live the way they want to live. They're not forcing their way of life on anyone. It's none of President Logan's business.”

Jimmy said, “I agree with you, Ted. But I'll admit something: I'd like to live here. Man, these people have something good going for them.”

Barney glanced at him. “The death penalty, Jimmy? Hard laws? I never knew you felt that way.”

“You never asked me.”

Charles Clayton and his crew pulled to a halt at the northernmost edge of the western part of the Tri-states. They had been following a chain-link fence for miles. The fence had stopped abruptly, turning straight east. Inside the fence was a desolate-looking stretch of almost barren land, cleared and stripped of most vegetation. It looked to be about a thousand yards wide.

“Looks like a no man's land,” Clayton said, gazing at the second and third fences in the open area. “I'm beginning to understand why they have so few police. Once a person gets in, he can't get out! The entire damned place is a jail.”

The minicam operator consulted a booklet. “This is the strip, as it's called. Jesus, can you imagine the wire it took to build this thing?”

“Warning signs every few hundred yards,” Clayton said. “I wonder if that area inside is mined?”

A military Jeep pulled up beside the van. It had driven up so swiftly and silently it startled the men. The two soldiers were dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes, jump boots, and black berets. Armed with pistols and automatic weapons, they were neither hostile nor openly friendly—just curious.

“Something the matter?” one asked.

“Are you police?”

“No, army patrol. Border security.”

Clayton nodded. “What would you do if I had an urge to walk around in there?” He pointed toward the strip. “Just climb the fence and go in there?”

“Nothing,” the soldier replied blandly. “You're an adult; you can read the warning signs. If you want to run the risk of getting hurt or killed in there, that's your business.”

“So it is mined,” Clayton said.