A Memorite, arrested for any reason, would be news at which most reporters would salivate. But there were no members of the press when Chris was arrested. When they arrived at the station they entered quickly through a back door. Again there were no reporters or photographers. The Chief had been asking for a Memorite for the police station for a long time; apparently, he wanted to make sure he didn’t jeopardize that.
They led Chris to a desk where a man, obviously too large to ever be of much use on the street, shuffled some paper.
“Sergeant Hinks, we need to process Mr. Walser.” The officer on Chris’s right said.
The Sergeant peered studiously at a file and ignored them. Chris watched his eyes. They didn’t move, which meant he wasn’t actually studying anything, but pretending to be busy. Finally, the sergeant closed the file, set it aside, and gave Chris an annoyed look. He brought out a small box, set it at the front of his desk, and said, “Personal effects in here.”
Since Chris had been in the middle of breakfast, he hadn’t yet put his usual items in his pockets.
“I don’t believe I have any personal effects.”
“Oh, really smart guy, then what’s that thing on yer arm?”
“I’m sorry but this is a Memorite TacCom, it isn’t a weapon, and I can’t allow it to be removed.”
“Is that so,” the sergeant grinned up at him, “How’s about we jam this here billy club up...”
“Sergeant,” one of the officers interrupted, “this is Chris Walser, the Memorite.”
“I don’t give a flip whether he’s Mary Queen of Scots,” with that the sergeant heaved his excessive bulk out of his chair and began to walk around the desk toward Chris, “When I tell a prisoner to remove personal effects they’d...”
“Sergeant!”
“They all turned to see the Chief standing at the door to his office. He looked at the sergeant for a second or two and then looked around at the ground.
“Seems to me this floor’s awful messy. Why don’t you grab a broom and give it a good sweep. Then maybe we can see if we’ve found something you can actually do.” He turned to the officers escorting Chris, “Bring Mr. Walser into my office.”
Once inside, the Chief closed the door, walked behind his desk, and sat down.
“I apologize for that, Mr. Walser. But the sergeant was right about you needing to remove...uh...that.” He motioned toward the TacCom. “For one thing we can’t make exceptions, and for another, it identifies you as a Memorite, and might cause problems with other prisoners. While we have you here we’ll put you in a cell by yourself, but we still would rather be safe than regret it later. I’m sure you understand.”
Chris stared at his TacCom and then looked up at the Chief.
“Yes, I understand.”
There are three ways to remove a TacCom. The first is to simply slide the whole thing off the forearm. Rarely would a Memorite ever do it this way. The second is to release the catch located on the side of the reception bar. The third is to send the release command via the touchpad. There was no way that the Chief or the officers could know about the second and third methods. If they had already removed Engstrom’s, then they would know about the first. By using the third method, Chris would be able to send a short message before releasing the catch. How long of a message could he send before they became suspicious? Chris raised his hand to the grooves.
“No,” said the Chief, “use the manual release.”
Enough was known about Memorites that few people ever would be willing to play poker with one. The obvious ability to easily count cards aside, Memorites tended to forego quite a bit of body language since the speed of their communications precluded the effective use of any. Even at that, Chris was visibly shocked. Had the Chief asked him to slide it off it would have simply meant he was being cautious. But he knew about the manual release. A Memorite had informed him, but why? Chris pressed the release and the TacCom fell off his arm.
Chris was now alone. No data, no connection, nothing. And to make it worse, an unintentional byproduct of TacCom use was that Memorites developed a psychological perception of their left forearm as a private area. He felt naked with it exposed. He quickly held his left arm against his side and covered it with his right hand. Such reactions were childish, he knew, but they were real and powerful nonetheless.
The officers led Chris to booking, where they photographed him. He was forced to uncover his left arm when they fingerprinted him, and Chris could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on his exposed forearm. His face felt hot and he smeared ink on his shirt because he didn’t take enough time to clean his fingers off. He stared at the floor as they led him to his cell.
The officers could tell that there was a big difference in Chris’s behavior once the TacCom was removed. His calm, relaxed confidence disappeared and was replaced by shame and embarrassment. What surprised them was that Chris was actually blushing.