Tom Long watched the old-fashioned street light. It glared a warning red--don't move, don't think, don't breath!--but he dashed into the street, regardless. Horns sounded and brakes squealed, but Tom, familiar with all the antiques kept in the museum that was also a city, dodged the cars easily. He spun like a top, waving at all the drivers who made quaintly obscene gestures.

Tom had come to this old city, his favorite place, to celebrate, and nothing could stop him from spreading his cheer around. He slammed his palms down on the cherry-red hood of a nicely restored Pinto, and grinned through the window at the driver. She stared back, bug-eyed. She blasted him loose with the horn, sending him back into the street, still spinning, still grinning. Grinning his very own smile, his no-deposit, no-return, no-holds-barred, 'til-death-did-they-part smile.

It felt so natural on his face. Forgetting the drivers, Tom skimmed across the street and planted himself in front of a store window, gazing admiringly at his reflection. Then he sighed, the smile turning rueful. He'd had to fight so hard for it. According to the rules of Renewal, a smile of his own limited him almost illegally. An ever-cheerful person could stagnate.

But it looks so nice, Tom thought, His white teeth set off his dark hair and brown eyes. Maybe he should file for a moustache, too. But with the recent run on facial hair, the local department of Health, Welfare, and Renewal would never approve his application.

No matter. The smile looked wonderful alone. Tom glanced around to see if anyone else was admiring his new feature. The exhibit-people who lived in the old city were glaring at him. The sight-seers and experiencers like Tom would not look at his face. He was the only one with a full-time smile.

Poor people, he thought. I must be showing them what they can't have. Rubbing their upper lips in it, you might say. Maybe I should leave.

Over his smile, his eyes narrowed and his forehead wrinkled, making his face looked mismatched. I've given up a lot for this smile, he thought. I've got a different boring job every three weeks, bad housing, and I can only be in love for two days a month, not to mention I have to try lots of different places, so this is my only trip to the City this year. All for this smile. If they want smiles, they can make their own sacrifices.

Tom noticed the window now held more than a reflection of his broad, white grin. A slender form swayed behind him, smudged in white and red. As he turned to show his smile he felt fingers at his neck. Cool, gentle fingers.

Understanding came, and horrified him. Tom tried to ward the fingers off, but they stroked through his hair and unerringly reached for the transfer jack at the base of his skull.

"No!" Tom Long cried, as lights burst in his eyes and noise roared in his ears while little electric prickled ran along his skin. Sour-bitter-salty-sweet filled his mouth and teasing odors choked the air around him. Instead of the familiar sensations of an addition, Tom felt something ripped away.

Slowly his senses sorted out. Tom found himself on his knees, clinging to the sill of a shop window. He raised his head and saw his own face in the glass. It matched now. The wrinkled forehead, the pained eyes. The bitter mouth. Red and white still smudged the glass and he watched it coalesce into a pale girl with long red hair and a beautiful, heart-breaking smile--Tom Long's smile.

He tried to pull himself up, but his legs were still too weak and he slid back down the glass, smearing the girl's reflection once more. "Why?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said the girl. He heard quick footsteps fade. He leaned his head against the window pane and used up his month's quota of tears.

As soon as Tom could stand, he stumbled out of the city, ignoring the people, the cars, the neon lights flashing. Head down, eyes fixed on the ground, Tom walked to the tubes and punched in the coordinates of Police Headquarters.

"I'm not sure we can help you," said the duty officer after listening to Tom's explanation. "The incident took place in the museum city, where we have no jurisdiction. Perhaps you should inquire there."

"But I'm not from the old city," said Tom. "I'm out of their jurisdiction, too. Believe me, my grandfather was from the old city, and when he specified in his death application that he wanted to die in my apartment, I learned all about who cares for whom."

"Oh," said the officer. She chewed her lip. "You're right, I'd forgotten." She straightened, buttons gleaming on her midnight-blue uniform. "I’d advise you to simply be patient. Whoever applied for the permit to steal your smile has to give it back after after it's been held as evidence and the thief sentenced. Perhaps you applied for victim and just forgot." She finished on a rising note, a half-question, and Tom shook his head. He had never been a victim and had no intention to try it anytime soon.

Frustrated, he drummed his fingers on the counter. Though the officer’s smile was only of the "soothing the public" variety, it still rankled. He glared at her until she looked over his head at the far wall, papered thickly with Renewal posters. "Learn Something New Every Day." "Be All That You Can Be." And, of course, "Vitality Through Variety."

"Nobody's authorized to steal my smile," Tom said.

"An unauthorized theft? That never hap--"

"Pretend that it did."

"If this theft was not approved, we can't do a thing."

"How did that girl get hold of the interface?" asked Tom. "Did you wonder about that?"

"No," said the officer, red flushing her cheeks. "And you shouldn't wonder about it either. If you want to think like a policeman, go file for a policeman's job."

"I don't want a policeman's job," said Tom. "I want to know who stole my smile. Find out."

The duty officer turned to her terminal. Tom wondered if she’d even gone through Transfer; she obviously didn't know how to handle real crimes. Probably in love with the uniform.

"I found her," said the officer. "Her name is Lisa T. Bailly. She's led an exemplary life, volunteered to help orphans, requested to be a nurse, the whole bit. The Department must have jumped at her request to steal."

"She filed for a crime but committed the wrong one?" Tom asked. The officer nodded. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" the officer repeated. "Ms Bailly did not go through the proper channels in perpetrating this crime. I’m afraid the police can no longer respond to it."

"Isn't there anyone who can take some kind of action? Something like this must have happened before."

"Well, yes," said the officer, "but wouldn't you really rather just get a new smile?"

"No," said Tom Long. "I want my smile back. Who can help me? The Invisible Police?"

"Hush," said the policewoman, leaning over the counter and slapping her hand over a tiny pick-up microphone. "What do you know about the Invisible Police?"

"That they're a real police force. I assumed they dealt with real crimes."

"No," said the officer. "You have the wrong idea about the Invisible Police. This isn't their type of case at all."

"But--"

"Go home, Mr. Long. I’ll look into it. Perhaps there is something we can do. If so, I'll call you."

Tom regarded her carefully. He tried to cool his anger; he wanted some left for the next time he talked to his mother. He shrugged and left without another word.

Tom went home and waited. He worked, cleaned his apartment, avoided looking in mirrors. He waited some more. The police officer did not call.

Tom tried applying for another smile, but the man at the application desk had no sympathy left. The police officer still did not call.

Dammit, if no one else would do anything, he would. He had to. His face felt heavy and mis-shapen; his mouth weighed down every expression.

What could he do? Tom sat and thought for a while, until his major-domo program, Maurice, spoke. "Excuse me, sir," he said softly from his usual corner speaker, "but what you're up against does seem quite a job."

"Of course," whispered Tom. He felt like a fool, and giggled like one. "Thank you, Maurice, you are exactly right." All Tom Long had to do was request another job. He would become a private detective.

Much preferring to live and be left alone, Tom had never applied for such work. The Department was sure to approve. Vitality through variety. Tom saluted the hardcopy of his personality profile he had tacked up on the wall as a dart board and went to work.

The authorization came as easily as he'd expected. Half an hour in Transfer Room Twelve at the local branch of the Renewal Center, and Tom was a private eye. Finding her should be easy, Tom thought. He had a name, Lisa T. Bailly; indeed, he'd had that all along, but now he knew what questions to ask. Piece of cake. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

Tom waved off the attendants as they fussed over him, too intrigued by his idea to suffer distraction. He had thought of it before. No, he'd started thinking about it, but the police officer had said it wasn't his job. And he had listened.

Tom shook himself. First things first; the address of the thief. Back at his home terminal, he called up her name, and found thirteen Lisa T. Baillys. He swore as he started requesting access to their files. Maurice balked until Tom mentioned his new status as detective.

She was the twelfth Lisa T. Tom recognized her immediately, even though he had not seen her clearly when she stole his smile. There was no mistaking that long, shiny hair, a silky, red-gold wave. Tom wondered how accurate the picture was. As he looked at her delicate, oval face and sea-green eyes, he hoped it wasn't a good likeness at all.

The file held her current address. Priorities and privileges--Tom paused, uncomfortable about prying. He put his hand to his mouth and felt the downward curve. He kept reading.

Nothing even hinted at why she became a real thief. Volunteer work with old people, abandoned children, the few terminally ill. How had she gotten away with nothing but good works?

Tom read further. He ran down her family. Father; Donald Bailly. Mother; Katherine Bailly. No brothers or sisters. Normal childhood, normal education....

Wait a minute. Her father. The name sounded familiar. Tom requested information on Donald Bailly, father of Lisa T. One look, and he slammed his fist against the terminal. "Sir, please," said Maurice, but Tom ignored him, too engrossed in his study of the personal file of the originator of Renewal. Bailly's file even contained excerpts from his famous speech before Congress.

"We now live in an automated paradise," he had said. "But, as in that first Eden, the serpent lurks among us. Machines have freed us from drudgery, true to the claims of their creators. But the scientists and engineers did not see quite far enough. Their creations have freed us, but for what?

" Most people have given themselves to paralyzing ennui. They have taken this opportunity for growth and done nothing. It is not their fault; they do nothing because there is nothing to do.

"We must help our people live again. We must provide our citizens with opportunities, with ways to make their lives meaningful. We must bring about a renewal of our culture."

Inspired by Bailly's speech, and spurred by a frightening suicide rate, Renewal was born. Everyone was encouraged to try new experiences. It was a great success. So great a success, in fact, that soon people were expected to try as many different things as possible, then required to do so by law.

Tom sighed. He still couldn't guess how the history of Renewal tied in with Lisa's theft of his smile, if it tied in at all. Instead, the fact that her father was instrumental in bringing about Renewal made it more confusing than before.

Tom kept scanning. He found only one more item of note; Donald Bailly had filed for permission to die, and had passed away two days after Lisa had stolen Tom's smile.

Just one more something that might be nothing. Why should a national hero want to grow old and die? And why would the Department let him?

Time for answers. Tom copied Lisa's address and left. Finding the apartment proved easy enough. It was in a very old, clean building of real red brick. Tom tried to skulk in the doorway of the building opposite so he could, uh, case the joint. Soon he felt too foolish, so he stood straight and marched into the lobby of Lisa's building.

It was sparsely furnished, with only a few over-stuffed chairs. More importantly, rows of buttons covered the walls. Tom found the one corresponding to Lisa's apartment, but before he pressed it, he tried the inner door leading to the elevators, still shy about demanding entrance. The doorknob shocked him. Tom jerked back with a muffled curse and retreated to the wall panel, flexing his tingling fingers.

No one answered when he rang Lisa's apartment. Feeling like he understood skulking much better now, Tom rang her neighbor.

"Hello?" said a nasal voice Tom identified as a feminine version of his grandfather. Brooklyn-born and bred.

"Hello," said Tom. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm actually trying to reach your neighbor. She doesn't answer. Do you know where she is?"

"Which neighbor?" Tom heard suspicion twang the nasal voice. Maybe he was on the right track.

"Lisa T. Bailly."

There was a long silence. "What do you want with her?"

"I want to talk to her," said Tom.

There was a longer silence, and Tom dabbed at the sweat drizzling down his forehead. The only environmental control the place had was air conditioning, and it was on the fritz. "Well," said the voice. "You sound kind of cute. I s'pose you can come up." After a buzz and a click the inner door popped open. Tom took a deep breath and pushed past it.

Once on Lisa's floor, Tom held the elevator and peered cautiously down the corridor. "Come on out, honey. I ain't gonna bite. At least, not right away." Startled by an impression of impossible blonde hair and the reddest mouth he had ever seen, he jerked back.

The woman began to laugh, so Tom stepped out of the elevator. Yep. There she was. A suffocatingly sexy vision in a clingy dress. Tom's mouth went dry.

"I got a double dose of sex appeal," said this vision in a low, husky voice, quite different from Brooklyn. "Do you like it?"

Tom nodded and licked his lips.

The woman laughed again. "Relax," she said, Brooklyn accent back. "I've only got it for two months. Say, you are pretty cute. What's your name?"

"Uh, Tom," said Tom, running a finger under his collar. "Tom Long."

"Doris Rinker," said the woman. "Pleased to meetcha." She held out her hand, but when Tom took it, she grabbed him and pulled him into her apartment.

"Wait a minute," said Tom. "What about Lisa?"

"Wouldn't you rather talk to me?" asked Doris, pulling him onto the chintz-covered couch next to her. She leaned closer. Her dress was very low-cut, and she had doused her cleavage liberally with musky perfume. Tom swallowed.

"No," he said. "I want to talk to Lisa." He made himself scoot away.

Doris straightened and frowned at Tom. "I guess you're serious. Okay, no more fooling around."

Tom blinked. Doris--winked out, as though she had turned off her sexuality with a switch. She was all business. "What do you want with Lisa? And I'd better like your answer, or you ain't getting no further."

Tom considered. He'd a prepared story, but the truth would do just as well with this woman. "I want to talk to her."

"What about?"

"I want to know why Lisa stole my smile," Tom said, looking Doris in the eyes. "I want to know if her father and his death had anything to do with it. I just want to know why."

"You leave her father out of it," said Doris. "The poor kid is having enough trouble as it is."

"Then he does have something to do with the whole mess, doesn't he?" Tom asked. Doris didn't answer. "Do you know why she stole my smile?"

"It's not for me to say."

"Then don't. Just take me to Lisa."

Doris stuck a strand of platinum hair in her mouth and chewed. "And that's not for me to do," she finally said. "But I s'pose I could ask her if it's okay. You swear you only want to talk, you're not going to turn her in or nothing?"

"I swear."

"Give me your address and phone number and go home," said Doris. "I'll check with Lisa. And believe me when I say you'd better be telling the truth, buddy bucko. I'm real fond of that girl, and if anything happens to her, I'll come after you."

Tom laid his card on the coffee table and left.

Back in his apartment, Tom paced until Maurice started counting the steps. What if she won't see me? he thought. What if she will? What do I do then? Turn her in? He thought again of her pale, delicate face and her red-gold hair.

Finally, his phone buzzed, and he jabbed at the button anxiously.

"Hello?" said Tom Long.

"You son of a bitch," Doris snarled at him from the screen. She was in an unfamiliar room, her blonde hair mussed, and Tom could hear pounding in the background. "You set us up. If I ever get my hands on you, I'll rip your lungs out."

"But--I didn't."

"Then why do we have cops pounding on the door?"

"Doris," called a frightened voice that Tom knew, though he'd only heard it whisper two words. His throat constricted. "Doris, they're breaking in the door."

"Maybe you didn't do it on purpose," said Doris, her nose almost pressed to the screen. "But you did lead them to me. So you'd better think of a way to get us out of this mess, seeing as how you got us into it in the first place."

Tom heard a crash and a frightened cry. "Oh, shit," said Doris. "Visitors. You'd better think quick." A hand wrapped around Doris' arm and yanked her from the screen.

A small man with colorless hair, bland features, and a nondescript uniform replaced her. "Hello," said the man. "Mr. Long? My name is Inspector Potter."

Tom went cold. Inspector Pottor was from the Invisible Police. He had to be--that face, that name, that voice were eminently forgettable. Even the full-face view over the phone barely registered. Tom tried to fill his voice with indignation. "What is going on? Who are you--"

"Why, Mr. Long," said Potter. Something about his quiet voice silenced Tom. "I thought you'd be pleased to know you helped us capture two serious threats to Renewal."

"But...you followed me like I was some kind of criminal."

"We did receive a report that you were exhibiting dangerous behavior," said Potter, "but the report must have been in error, mustn't it?"

Tom looked at Potter. Potter smiled at him, a gentle smile. Tom closed his eyes and swallowed. "Yes," he said. "The report was wrong."

"I thought so," said Potter. "Thank you for your help."

"Wait," said Tom. "Where are you taking them?"

"Why?"

"I--I want to come and see justice done," said Tom, and winced. Geeze, Tom, he thought. What a dumb thing to say.

Potter simply nodded. "You know," he said, "That might be good for you." He gave Tom an address. "Thank you," he said again. The screen went blank.

Tom stared at it, his mind just as blank. "Maurice," he said, "what am I to do?"

"If I may suggest, sir, that from now on you stay away from the old city. I have never approved of you disappearing for hours at a time into that seething--"

"Maurice," cried Tom. "You've done it again. I was in the museum city."

"But, sir--" But Tom was already out the door.

He worked fast: filing for a new job, rearranging his privileges, and visiting the Transfer Room took a scarce half hour. The address Potter had given him was a big box of a building, cold and closed-in. Tom shuddered. What a terrible place in which to be locked up.

Inside, he approached the officer behind the desk. The man could be Potter’s twin. Um, at least Tom thought Potter looked like that. He could no longer quite remember.

"Excuse me," said Tom. "May I speak to Inspector Potter?"

"He's busy," said the officer.

"But he's expecting me," said Tom. "My name is Tom Long."

"I don't care if your name is Donald Bailly. You still can't--"

"--touch her or I'll break your hand," someone yelled. Her Brooklyn accent was quite pronounced.

The officer went to the door behind his desk and opened it. Sounds of a scuffle came clearly from the hall beyond.

"Hah!" Doris yelled, a victory cry. The officer stuck his head in the passageway.

"Get that gun away from her, you idiots," yelled someone else. Potter, Tom thought, although they probably all sounded like that.

"What's going on back there?" called the officer.

"I don't know," said Tom. "Let's find out." He vaulted the desk, pushed the officer aside, and sped down the passageway, the startled policeman close behind.

Tom skidded around the corner and almost bowled Potter over. In front of Potter, Doris stood with her back to a door and a gun in her hand. She held it very steady.

Doris spared a glance for Tom. "About time."

"Are you and Lisa all right?" Tom asked.

"Yeah," said Doris. "No thanks to this bozo." She nodded at Potter. "He wants to wipe us."

"You are both threats to Renewal," said Potter.

"You wipe our brains over my dead body," said Doris.

"That can be arranged."

"But it won't be necessary." Tom stepped forward, a hardcopy of his job ident in hand. "As of half an hour ago, I am the new Governor of Old New York City."

Doris snorted. "What did you go and do that for?" she asked. But Potter sucked in a sharp breath.

"I did this because Lisa stole my smile in the Old City," Tom explained.

"So?"

"So, in the City, many of the old laws are still in force. Including the law that says the Governor can pardon criminals. Well," said Tom and coughed modestly. "I am invoking that law. You are both hereby pardoned."

"Let me see that," said Potter, grabbing the identification.

"It's all quite legal," said Tom. "There's not a thing you can do."

Potter handed the paper back. "It would seem that you're right," he said. "Congratulations. You're getting away with it. This time."

"But, Inspector--" said the officer whose gun was still clutched tightly in Doris' hands.

"You heard what I said, Brown," said Potter. "Of course, we will continue to keep a close eye on Mr. Long in the future."

"That should keep my life vital," said Tom.

Potter looked at him and nodded. "And mine." He held his out hand, and Tom took it. "You're free to go, Ms. Rinker. As is Ms. Bailly."

"Thank you, I'm sure." She smoothed her hair and smiled brilliantly. "Needs cleaning," she said, handing Brown his gun, then grabbed Tom's hand. "Shall we go?"

Later, Doris settled them onto the sofa in her apartment and tried to give Tom details between whoops of laughter. "Oh, I wish you'd seen his face when I took his gun away," she said.

"Brown's face?" asked Tom. He was careful not to look at Lisa. She kept her head down, her face curtained by that glorious fall of hair.

"Brown's and Potter's faces," said Doris. Tom barely heard her. He was too busy cursing himself for a fool. Well, here she is, he thought. Talk to her.

Tom felt literally dumb in Lisa's presence. The two of them had exchanged only monosyllables since Tom had helped Doris free Lisa from her cell. He hadn't even gotten a good look at her.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," said Doris. "You two are mooning around like a coupla kids."

Lisa and Tom looked up, startled. "Speak to each other. Lisa, I haven't even heard you thank Tom for getting us out of our fix."

"Oh, yes," said Lisa, turning to Tom and laying a slim hand on his knee. "I do want to thank you for your help. What you did ws very clever."

"Uh," said Tom. His first clear look at her face cast her pictures into shadow. Then he realized he was staring, and blushed. "It was nothing," he managed to continue. "The woman who got suckered into being governor before me didn't want the job anymore, so it was easy to get."

"But why?" asked Lisa.

"Why what?"

"Why did you help me? I stole your smile." Lisa turned away.

"Because I want to ask you the same question. Why."

"For my father," said Lisa. "You know who he was?" Tom nodded. "He was so pleased to see Renewal come about, because people got so many opportunities to grow and experiment. But when it got perverted, when people were forced to do things they didn't even like, Dad saw what was happening. But he was old, and tired of fighting. So he filed for a death permit."

Tom took her hand. Lisa sighed. "Before he died, he told me he wanted to see me smile. That was all. I didn't have my own, so I stole yours. I'm sorry. You can have it back now."

"That's all right," said Tom. "I'm sure it looks better on you, if you would bother to use it."

Lisa looked up at Tom. "Perhaps we can share," she said.

Tom took Lisa's hand, and felt it resting calm and trusting in his. Doris sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve. Lisa smiled at him.

And Tom Long smiled back.