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
