He had barely slipped into his dressing gown when the day's second unwanted intrusion by the Village machinery rang in his ears. Number 6 went unhurriedly to the phone, instinctively turning his back to the ever-watchful television monitor as he answered.

      "What is it?" he muttered, his voice still rough with sleep.

      "Good morning," said an unfamiliar, clipped voice. When Number 6 returned the greeting with obstinate silence, the voice continued, unperturbed. "Number 2 wishes to see you as soon as you've dressed."

      Number 6 whirled to glare at the TV, which for once was dark and unseeing. He curled his lip contemptuously at it anyway. "Will this be a casual event, or should I hunt up my best suit?" he asked acidly.

      "Be seeing you," the voice on the line replied. Then silence.

      As usual, Number 6 was in no mood to be compliant. Following an exceptionally leisurely breakfast, he took his time getting to the Green Dome, finding an interesting new route that nearly doubled the usual distance from his cottage. He even stopped along the way to untangle a kite string for a clamoring group of Village children. The day was fair; the warm sun felt like freedom caressing his skin. By the time he reached Number 2's door, Number 6 was feeling very nearly fine.

      When the door swung open before him, he headed purposefully toward Number 2's chamber, only to be intercepted by a tall, thin fellow with a hangdog expression, whose penny-farthing badge identified him as Number 17. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. Number 6 recognized the prim tones from his earlier conversation. This was Number 2's latest "assistant," no doubt.

      "I've been summoned," he said pleasantly. "And you know how he hates to be kept waiting." He jerked a thumb toward the door.

      Number 17's face registered skepticism, which mixed poorly with his naturally mordant expression. "What is this, a joke?" he sneered. "Who summoned you, then?"

      Instantly on his guard, Number 6 took a step backward. "I believe you did," he said, keeping his voice light.

      Number 17 regarded him warily, eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes," he said slowly. "I've heard about you. The crafty Number 6, isn't it? Well, your tricks won't work on me. Now move along. Number 2 is hard at work this morning."

      "Apparently he is," agreed Number 6. He fixed Number 17 with an ice-blue stare for a long moment, then turned away. "Give the old man my regards...if you see him," he called over his shoulder as he left the Green Dome. He ignored Number 17's parting "Be seeing you," uttered in a smug tone.

      There was no dawdling this time as Number 6 returned to his residence. He tried with only partial success to keep a lid on his irritation at having his time wasted by the officious Number 17. By the time he reached the neat bungalow marked "6 - Private," much of his earlier good cheer had deserted him.

      His mood crumbled entirely as the front door swung open before him and he walked in on a ransacking in progress. Hunched over his desk - the desk so like his own in London - was a man, a fellow Village citizen. His back was to Number 6, but he appeared to be a good head shorter than Number 6 himself, bandy-legged and gray-haired. The man was pawing through desk drawers rapidly, and making sloppy work of it. He apparently had not heard Number 6 enter.

      Without making a sound the Prisoner rushed forward, grabbed the intruder by the back of his striped shirt, and spun him around. The instinct to strike first and ask questions later was strong, but he pulled his punch upon seeing the terrified expression on the older man's face. Number 6 could actually feel him trembling.

      "Who are you?" he asked coldly, keeping a firm grip on the man.

      "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be coming back," the intruder sputtered. His eyes were wide with fear.

      "Well, that makes it all right then, eh?" Number 6 shot back, his voice rising along with his temper. "I said, who are you?"

      "I'm Number 61," the man almost whispered. He seemed so genuinely frightened that Number 6 let him go and took a cautious step back. Number 61 smoothed his rumpled shirt, nervously but with dignity.

      "What are you doing here?" Number 6 said menacingly.

      "I was sent here," said Number 61.

      "Sent here? By whom? Number 2?"

      Number 61 smiled a little. "I don't imagine Number 2 would waste much time on someone like me," he shrugged.

      "Then who?" asked Number 6.

      The older man hesitated, then replied, "Number 28."

      "A colleague," Number 61 corrected him. "We work - or did work - together. At the chemist's."

      "The chemist's?" Number 6 cocked an eyebrow at the man. "And what is this - some new home-delivery scheme?"

      "No, I - " Number 61 glanced about him nervously, as if weighing the comparative risks of talking and remaining silent. Finally he looked up at Number 6 miserably.

      "Oh, I might as well tell you," he said. "Number 28 caught me helping myself. To tranquilizers. They're a sort of vice of mine. Do wonders for the nerves. Do you ever, er...?"

<      "I find it doesn't pay to sleep too soundly round here," Number 6 deadpanned. "Go on."

      Number 61 nodded and cleared his throat. "Well. Number 28 is a prisoner, just like you and me, but tends to be a bit more, well, obedient than most. I was so afraid of being turned in to the authorities. I didn't know what they might do, you see. How they might punish me."

      "For petty theft? I imagine they'd throw the book at you. A life sentence in the Village."

      The little man gave Number 6 a hurt look. "Not for the theft," he said reproachfully. "For the addiction."

      "Ah, yes, the crime of trying to blot out reality," mused Number 6. "They don't like being ignored, do they." He was beginning to feel creeping sympathy for the old man. It was a potentially dangerous reaction. "Still, that doesn't explain why I entered to find you rummaging through my things."

      "Number 28 said we could make a deal," explained Number 61. "My pilfering could remain our little secret. I could even help myself from time to time. Only I had to do something." He paused, and when he spoke again he did not meet Number 6's eyes.

      "I was supposed to sneak in here and - "

      "And pilfer from me instead of the chemist's?"

      Number 61 nodded mutely.

      "What could I possibly possess that might be of interest to your Number 28?" asked Number 6 suspiciously.

      "I don't know," said Number 61. "I wasn't told. Just that I was to find an airtight plastic container hidden somewhere in your home. That I'd know it when I saw it."

      "An airtight container," Number 6 repeated. "Well, I don't know what your Number 28 is up to, but I'm afraid I don't have what the two of you are looking for. You'll have to go back empty-handed."

      Number 61 looked resigned. "I suppose so. You know," he said thoughtfully, "prior to being brought here, I spent most of my life as a thief of one kind or another. Now I've been caught red-handed at it, twice in as many days. I never was a very good thief. Perhaps that's why I ended up here." He gave Number 6 a sad smile. "Now I'm in for it. Both you and Number 28 will report me to the authorities, and that will be the end of me."

      Number 6 regarded the old man with a mixture of pity and suspicion. He couldn't imagine what he had to gain by turning snitch for the Village. Number 61 seemed harmless enough.

      "Go on," he said curtly, gesturing toward the door. "Off you go. The authorities won't hear of your sad tale from me."

      "Thank you," said Number 61 earnestly, backing diffidently toward the door. "Thank you, Number 6. What they say about you is wrong, after all." He slipped quickly out the door.

      Number 6 stared after him for a long moment. Then he too allowed the door to swing open for him and went out, headed for the chemist's shop.

      There was a public phone around the corner from Number 6's residence, in the opposite direction from the chemist's. Number 61 watched Number 6 leave from a safe hiding place, then hurried to the phone. He picked it up, asked for a number, and waited.

     "All right," he murmured. "Yes, I think it went off splendidly. But what in blazes took him so long? You were to send him right back.... All I know is I had to hang about in his living room for nearly half an hour before I finally heard him coming. Yes, unpredictable...but in some ways, really quite reliable. All right. Be seeing you."

     The sun was nearly overhead by the time Number 6 reached the chemist's shop, but its heat now felt more like iron bars than like the beacon of freedom it had this morning. During the walk over Number 6 had easily transferred his irritation from Number 17 to the unknown Number 28. The jangling bell over the shop door echoed the thrumming of his taut nerves.

      He marched up to the counter, where a dark-haired young woman stood, bent over a sheaf of paperwork. She looked up, startled, when Number 6 barked, "I want to see Number 28. Now."

      "I'm Number 28," she said calmly. "What can I do for you?"

      In another world, his training had taught him never to make assumptions. But this slim, cool beauty was not quite what Number 6 had envisioned from Number 61's tale of blackmail. Still, he was taken aback for only a moment.

      "I want to know," he said through clenched teeth, "why you ordered my house searched."

      "Why I did what?" said Number 28, puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Number...?" She trailed off, looking for the Village badge on his jacket, not finding it.

      "I keep it in my desk," Number 6 informed her, "where I just now found your colleague Number 61 rummaging about, on your orders." Determined to break through her innocuous facade, he prepared to steel himself against feminine protestations of innocence.

      But Number 28 was not going to resort to such tactics. "Now look here," she said, biting off her words in anger. "I don't know who you are, and I don't know any Number 61. What has your desk being gone through to do with me?"

      "You don't work with Number 61 here?" It was still an accusation, but Number 6 was beginning to suspect he had been sent on a wild goose chase for the second time in a day.

      "No," said Number 28 firmly. "There's no 61 here. At least, not as long as I've been here."

<      "And how long is that?" Number 6 asked, but he was merely stalling. He drummed his fingers on the counter, thinking furiously.

      "I've lost track," replied Number 28 irritably, and it was obvious that she was trying to get rid of him.

      Number 6 mustered a disarming smile. "Why...why do you suppose Number 61 would claim you had sent him to break into my house?"

      Number 28 rolled her eyes, not at all disarmed. "I'm sure I have no idea," she said. "It sounds as if this is between you and Number 61. Now if you'll excuse me." She stared hard at him, waiting for him to go. Number 6 gave up.

      "Be seeing you," he muttered, and strolled out.

      Number 28 watched him go. After a moment, the lanky figure of Number 17 emerged from the back of the shop and stood at her side. "Very good, my dear," he said softly. "Really excellent."

      She turned to look at him. He reached into his pocket, drew out a small red capsule, and handed it to her. As Number 28 swallowed it, a lone tear trickled down one pale cheek.

      Number 6 was agitated. His daily walk around the Village today resembled the restless circling of a caged animal. When he came to the bell tower, he bounded up the steps, arriving at the top winded and perspiring. Normally the cool breeze off the ocean calmed him, but today it seemed only to fan the flames of his doubt and suspicion.

      They were trying to set him up. They wanted him to think that nothing - and no one - was as it seemed. That was standard Village operating procedure. But what was their goal this time? Sending a man to search his residence for a nonexistent container, then giving him a phony cover story about addiction and blackmail.... It made no sense.

      Clearly someone was lying to him. Was it Number 61 or Number 28? The old man's distress and shame had seemed genuine. But so had the woman's indignation. It annoyed Number 6 to have to play these guessing games. He descended to the ground and made his way - via direct route this time - to the Green Dome.

      He intended to storm into Number 2's office and demand an explanation for today's strange events. But once again he was stopped by the hovering scarecrow, Number 17. "You are a persistent person, Number 6," he said, placing himself in front of the door to the inner chamber.

      "I want to see Number 2, and I want to see him now," Number 6 snapped.

      "Number 2 is a busy man," huffed Number 17. "If you'd like to make an appointment..."

      Number 6 considered simply lifting up the man bodily and moving him aside. But he checked himself for the moment. "No," he said peevishly, "I do not wish to make an appointment."

      "Anyway, he's not in there," Number 17 shrugged. "He's out." He smiled triumphantly as Number 6 stalked out.

      Exasperated, Number 6 eventually ended up at the cafe. He was ruthlessly stirring a cup of tea when a clarion call from the nearest loudspeaker alerted the Village to an impending announcement.

      "Attention, fellow citizens," blared the familiar amplified voice. "There is grave news to report today. Your Village security officials have confirmed the presence of a thief in our midst. A large quantity of a powerful new chemical substance, specially developed by our dedicated scientists to relieve pain and ease distress, has been reported missing from the research laboratories. For any citizen to so brazenly abuse the hospitality of the Village, where work units are allotted generously and prosperity is within the reach of all, is an unthinkable affront to the peace and security of the community."

      Number 6 glanced around at the Villagers seated near him. They all seemed to be listening raptly. Many were nodding grimly, or shaking their heads in disgust.

      "The security of the Village depends upon the vigilance of its citizens," the announcer continued. "We must all draw together to expose the one who has strayed from the flock. Therefore, Number 2 has authorized a reward of 500 work units to the person or persons who discovers the identity of the thief. Remember, to steal from one is to steal from all. To punish the guilty is to ensure the future of a just society for the innocent. Five hundred work credits go to the most vigilant among us. Will it be you?"

      With that the loudspeaker went silent. Slowly conversations resumed around Number 6. He sipped his tea absently, mulling over the announcement. Instinct told him that it could be another piece to his current puzzle, if only he could make it fit.

      All around him he heard ominous rumblings as his fellow cafe patrons discussed the thief and the reward with growing agitation. There seemed to be the makings of a real vigilante mob among the bland, pleasant faces of the Villagers. The prospect disturbed him. He hastily drained his teacup and headed back to his cottage.

      On the way he passed Number 78, an elderly gentleman whom he often beat at chess. "Ah, Number 6," the man hailed him. "You heard the announcement, I trust?"

      "Yes, yes I did," Number 6 murmured politely, slowing but not stopping. Number 78 fell in step beside him.

      "Damned thieves," the old man sighed, shaking his head. "One bad apple, don't you know. That's all it takes, and soon the rest of us are living in a fishbowl, neighbor spying on neighbor. And for what? Drugs."

      "Yes, a real shame," said Number 6, not really listening.

      "Someone's going to get hurt," Number 78 continued. "That's what'll happen. Someone's going to get falsely accused. There'll be finger-pointing, recriminations, and in the end it won't really matter who stole what. So long as there's a neck in the noose, no one will ask any questions, and everybody - well, everybody but one, anyway - will be convinced justice has been done."

      Number 6 stopped in his tracks. He stared at Number 78. "Yes," he said slowly. "So long as there's a neck in the noose."

      "Well, I must be off," said Number 78 cheerily. "Stop by sometime, friend, and I'll beat you at chess." He waved and ambled away.

      It was all beginning to make sense. Number 6 almost broke into a run, but forced himself to walk with a controlled gait toward his cottage. Now was not the time to stand out from his fellow citizens. Already he could see ordinarily docile Villagers eyeing each other with newfound suspicion as they milled about. The mob mentality was taking over with astonishing speed. Do nothing to attract unfavorable attention, he told himself. Keep walking.

      But as he came upon his residence he froze, his worst suspicions confirmed. The door stood open. Number 6 crept stealthily to the entrance and paused, listening for noises within. He thought he heard at least two people, maybe more, moving quietly about. Prepared to defend himself if necessary, he stepped through the doorway into his living room.

<      At once two burly, stone-faced men confronted him. Number 6 recognized them as Village security goons. He tensed himself to spring at them, but they made no move to attack. Instead they merely stood their ground, watching him as warily as he watched them. He took several cautious steps into the room.

      Number 6 once again spotted a figure bent over his desk. But this person was tall and thin, not short and soft like Number 61. He turned to face Number 6. It was Number 17. In his hand he held a small plastic container with an airtight lid, marked "Village Laboratories."

      "What are you doing here?" Number 6 snarled. Immediately the two goons took a threatening step forward. But Number 17 motioned them back, unruffled.

      "Number 6," he said, and his clipped tones were tinged with regret. "This is so unlike you." He held up the container and shook it meaningfully.

      "I agree," said Number 6 angrily. "Let's hear your explanation first."

      Number 17 smiled. "Acting on an anonymous tip," he said gravely, as if reciting a school piece, "Village security, along with Number 2's trusted assistant, were dispatched to the home of Number 6, where they found the purloined chemical compound in a desk drawer."

      "And just which anonymous citizen," said Number 6, "will be collecting the reward for his vigilance?"

      At that moment he heard a footstep behind him. He whirled around to see Number 61 enter the room. The man's regretful smile was a carbon copy of Number 17's.

<      "So it was you," said Number 6 in a low, menacing voice. "You weren't looking for something, you were planting it. And when you got caught you fed me some damned story about blackmail and your poor, pitiful addiction. It was a complete frame-up, and I fell for it."

      "Oh, but it wasn't just a 'damned story,' my dear fellow," said Number 17. "Number 61 does indeed have a problem with over-indulging in tranquilizers, and was indeed caught with one hand in the pharmaceutical cookie jar."

      Number 6 was waiting for the other shoe to drop. His eyes darted from Number 17 to Number 61. Finally he shouted, "And?"

      "Hmmm?" said Number 17, feigning innocence. "Oh, I see. Something doesn't make sense to you. And that always gets your back up, doesn't it? Very well." He turned toward the doorway that led to Number 6's bedroom. "My dear? You can come out now."

      Number 6 followed 17's gaze in time to see Number 28, the dark-haired woman from the chemist's, walk slowly into the room. She didn't appear to be the same calm, confident woman he had met earlier. She looked nervous and afraid.

      "Number 6," said 17, "meet Number 61."

      As if on cue, the man who had been calling himself Number 61 removed his badge, approached the woman, and pinned it to her shirt. She looked at Number 6 with what might have been an apology in her eyes.

     Number 6 turned to the former Number 61. He too appeared to have changed subtly. Gone was the deferential, shamefaced old man who had broken in here this morning. He now met Number 6's stare with an officious, even haughty, expression.

     "Who are you, then?" Number 6 asked.

     Number 17 silently removed his own badge and handed it to the elderly gentleman, who pinned it to his shirt. Both men were obviously highly amused with their pantomime. Before Number 6 could formulate his next question, the erstwhile Number 17 reached into his pocket and pulled out yet another badge, which he affixed to his lapel. When he took his hand away, Number 6 could see the number upon it: Number 2.

      "You're the new Number 2." Despite the gravity of the situation, Number 6 had to smile faintly at the absurdity of it all. "Well, it's Happy Halloween all around, isn't it?"

      He folded his arms across his chest and regarded the others, trying to sort out the sudden switches of identity. "Well, then," he said, "who is Number 28?"

      "Number 28 was the Village chemist," said Number 2, emphasizing the past tense. "He misappropriated this valuable new formula from the lab last week. He was found with it on him and was promptly and suitably...disciplined."

      "I see," said Number 6. "So how did this 'valuable new formula' wind up in my desk?"

      Number 2 shrugged. "In a democratic society, every criminal has the right to face his accusers, and vice versa. It's bad for morale not to let the community confront the one who has threatened their security. Unfortunately, in this case, after the, ah, discipline was administered, there was not much left of Number 28 to present to the citizenry."

      Number 6 saw Number 61 wince out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze firmly on Number 2. "So you needed a nice fresh body, preferably one that was still ambulatory, to satisfy the blood lust of the citizens," he said. "And you chose me."

      To his surprise, Number 2 and his assistant both had a good long laugh at that. "My dear fellow, certainly not," said Number 2, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye.

      "No?"

      "On my honor, no. You're far too valuable to be thrown to that mob."

      "Then who?"

      The smile vanished from Number 2's face. "I expected you to figure it out yourself," he said coldly. "We're going to assign the blame to the thieving drug addict, Number 61."

      Number 6 was dumbfounded. He looked at Number 2 with wide eyes, then turned to Number 61. She met his gaze, fighting to keep her expression calm, but he could see the mute plea there. A single desperate sob escaped her. The pathetic sound struck him like a blow, snapping the tight rein he normally kept on his emotions.

      "No!" he bellowed, balling his fists. The goons were on him in an instant, restraining him. Number 6 struggled, but they held him fast. Number 2 stepped forward until their faces were mere inches apart.

      "No, Number 6?" he said softly. "Very well. I was prepared for this outburst of compassion. It's one of your most predictable traits. Perhaps you'd like to make a deal."

      Number 2 motioned to the goons, who released Number 6 but stayed close by him, waiting for an aggressive move on his part. He remained still, glaring defiantly at Number 2. "What kind of a deal?" he growled.

      "The young woman goes free," said Number 2. He punctuated the word "free" by tossing the plastic container to Number 17, who caught it with one hand. "No frame-up, the charges of theft dropped. We'll even put her through rehabilitation for her unfortunate dependency. She'll be better than new."

      "That's your part of the bargain," said Number 6, rubbing his wrists where the goons had grabbed him. "What's mine?"

      Number 2 gave him an icy smile. "All you have to do, my dear Number 6," he said, "is tell me why you resigned."

      Number 6 stiffened. He turned once again to Number 61. This time she lowered her eyes, as if she could no longer bring herself to plead for her life under those conditions. Number 17 stifled a chuckle. Number 6 spun on him, silencing him with a look of pure murder. One of the goons put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off angrily.

      "What do you say?" said Number 2, as casually as if he were proposing a walk on the beach. "Your reasons for her life. It's really not such a large sacrifice in order to see justice done."

      The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly. Number 17 tossed the incriminating container from one hand to the other, staring insolently at Number 6. The soft thud as it hit his fleshy hands was the only sound in the room.

      Number 6 fidgeted anxiously. He couldn't protect Number 61 from the mindless vengeance of the Villagers once she stood accused of the theft. And he had only the word of the treacherous Number 2 that she wouldn't be convicted anyway, even if he spilled his guts. There had to be another way out. If only he could...

      Without warning Number 61 leapt forward, shouldering her way past the goons. They tried to grab her, but Number 6 shoved them aside with all his strength. When they turned on him, fists raised, the young woman ran out the front door. With a voice that was shrill with fear but ringing with conviction, she began to shout, "It was Number 17! It was Number 17! He stole the compound! I just found him with the container in his hands! Come quickly! It was Number 17!"

      Number 6 quickly dispatched the two goons, sending them sprawling with a few well-placed punches. From outside he heard the first confused rumblings of the citizens as they gathered to listen to Number 61's proclamation. The noise of the crowd grew louder and more threatening the longer she yelled. When it had become a deafening roar, Number 6 descended on Number 17, who had backed into a corner when the fighting broke out. "Let's go," he said quietly, grabbing him firmly by the arms.

      Number 17 struggled weakly, but he was no match for Number 6. He looked imploringly toward the security men. It was no use; one was still lying on the floor, moaning, while the other had staggered to the door and was watching the agitated mob with a distinctly nervous expression. Number 17 twisted to face Number 2. Number 6 turned as well.

      "Let him go, Number 6." But there was no force in his words.

      Number 6 led Number 17 outside. He was amazed at how many Villagers had gathered in such a short time, and at how bloodthirsty they all looked. He craned his neck to locate Number 61. She was surrounded by reporters from the "Tally-Ho," all clamoring for the story of Number 17's "capture."

      "Here's your man," Number 6 shouted, and released his hold on Number 17. Immediately he was swallowed up by the mob, which floated away like a swarm of angry hornets.

      As their yelling died away in the distance, Number 2 crept outside and stood beside Number 6. "You'll both pay for this, you know."

      Number 6 smiled knowingly. "Number 61 is a hero to the citizens of the Village," he said calmly. "Any reprisals against her now will look extremely unfavorable on your record." He turned away from Number 2 and stepped back into his cottage. "And I'm far too valuable. Be seeing you."

      And the door swung shut in Number 2's face.

© 1997, Theresa Donia. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.