by MANFRED A. CARTER
Mars had become the prison planet for Earth's
afflicted, for the Leaders had exiled them to
a living death beneath its red surface. But the
Leaders had erred in their cold-blooded
calculations--Mars held a secret beyond their ken.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
John Greely looked at Hilda's freshly gloved, artificial hand, as
she adjusted her note book to a clip concealed in the palm. The hand
fascinated him horribly. Beauty should never be crippled. She sensed
his morbid stare, but smiled and rose gracefully, saying, "O.K., Boss.
Let's go."
She flashed bantering eyes at her editor, with a last pat of her
heavily ringed right hand on the rich rolling waves of blonde hair that
were always in place. The startling pale beauty of her young face
was contrasted by glowing dark brown eyes. Theirs was a comfortable
friendship, this of the young editor and his society staff and
secretary, but a limited one. He said, gruffly, "Let me carry the
raditype."
"No, you're the dignity, I'm the beast of burden. Come on, hurry! We've
only five minutes to reach the district hospital."
John slipped on his transparent all-weather coat and helped Hilda with
hers. His reddish brown hair flipped in the March wind as they stepped
out from the _Daily Home Recorder_ building. His almost boyishly round
cheeks glowed with color. Hilda liked the way his shoulders snapped up
as he faced the cold. She liked the way he took her arm, but she must
always be casual....
"Do you suppose it's just another rumor?" she asked, as they stepped
into a low, cigar shaped car.
"Look like straight dope to me. The Universal News Service is pretty
conservative."
"How could things have changed so while we were away? It doesn't seem
like the same world. Those men in Washington must be mad."
"I know, Hilda, but perhaps we are the ones who are out of step. This
is the day of directed evolution."
"But, John--how horrible, to take all those sick folks and banish them
on a Space Tramp!"
John drove past the old wooden houses of their small city and then let
out speed on the highway before he answered, "The Leader says that is
what we should do--harden our emotions for the sake of a better race.
You and I are in the minority. Those years on the Moon trip have left
us out of date."
They were silent for a little while before she continued, "Do you
suppose we really are in the minority? The people who listen in to our
raditype service seem just about as they did before we went away. Their
letters prove that. I saw an old lady's scrap book the other day, of
her clippings. I read it through because I had been wondering how much
of the printed recording was ever reread. Most people are content to
glance at the screen when the news first comes on. She had saved the
old type sentimental items, just as an old lady would have five or ten
years ago."
"Yes, the small towns are slow to change. That's why _they_ hate the
little news services like ours. Prepared news hastens the new day."
"Do you suppose they'll talk to us?"
"They'll have to," he said grimly, "with all those folks watching and
listening in. I wonder what the patients think about the new idea--or
if they know."
"Where do you think they will be sent? Why don't the authorities just
put them to sleep with a lethal drug?"
"Search me, Honey. Well, here we are."
Their street roller drew up silently before a huge gray building in the
open country and John turned the magnetic parking control. They stepped
out from the grass-lined curb, and John pushed the moving sidewalk
half-speed handle, sliding them quickly up to an entrance. It opened
automatically and in a moment they were standing before a large silver
reception screen.
A white haired doctor, in his long surgical gown, glowed rapidly into
focus before them. His eyes darted at John like the incision of a
lancet. "What's the press want this morning?"
"We'd like an interview on the Universe News story."
Hilda held her raditype transmitter open toward the screen, secure in
the crook of her arm, while she made private stenographic notes on the
pad. Every home in the Brownville Section, which happened to be tuned
in, was seeing the Doctor and he suddenly realized it enough to smile
slightly. He inwardly cursed the freedom of the press in small towns,
but remarked with forced graciousness, "I'll have a nurse conduct you
to the surgery. We can talk while I supervise some minor operations."
"Fine!"
* * * * *
They walked past the Mental Case Wards in silence. It had been fifty
years since the most degenerate of these poor unfortunates had been
allowed to vociferate their wild discords. Hypnosis and drugs had
achieved permanent quiet at last, but there was still a low percentage
of actual cures.
Beyond these wards they came to the surgical division, and presently
sat with Dr. Henderson in a small circular screened room, where a
dozen operations were simultaneously shown. He hardly glanced at
them, but kept his eyes constantly on the moving screen before him,
touching buttons occasionally before making some brief comment into the
transmitter.
John ignored his seeming lack of attention. "What about this story that
the Central Medical Division is moving all these patients out on a
space ship?"
"Some wild rumor--nothing in it."
"Any objection to our taking a round of observation?"
"No, go ahead. Might as well do it now. We can finish the interview
later. I want to concentrate on that brain section transfer. It's
rather tricky."
They stepped into an observation car and slid slowly around the
overhead track, looking down on crowded wards below.
"John! There _is_ something happening here. Look at the patients'
faces. They're afraid."
"Does seem to be a lot of activity."
"Let's slide down into that convalescent ward and see what they have to
say."
"O.K., Sister, but you know it is forbidden. We'll probably get thrown
out and reported."
They had hardly stepped out of the slide when a group of white gowned
orderlies came down the next corridor. Hilda saw them and whispered
tensely. "Here! Sit in this wheel chair, and I'll visit you--Help me
fold our coats so that you can sit on them."
John obeyed and lolled back in the chair, winking at her before he half
closed his eyes.
The orderlies wheeled in a low carrier, piled high with transparent
plastic overcoats, old fashioned sweaters, woolen mackinaws, and rubber
raincoats--any sort of an outdated covering. Most of the patients in
these district hospitals were poor, and largely living in the meager
comforts of the early part of the century. They made no protest, but
donned their variegated assortment of coverings and lined up obediently
to march out.
"Let's go with them," Hilda whispered.
"Quick! Behind those screens and into the end of the line," he
directed, "the press joins the army of decrepitude."
"John, there are hundreds of ambulance planes outside!"
"Got your transmitter on?"
"Yes, it's been on all the time."
A white faced man ahead of them began to struggle between two guards as
they reached the open air. A male nurse, walking behind them, deftly
thrust a large hypodermic into the patient's arm, while the orderlies
held him and pushed back his sleeve. The rebellious one quieted and was
carried into one of the planes.
There were a few other struggles of resistance. Here and there a
patient ran a few yards before being caught and subdued. For the most
part the unhappy crowd showed only a quiet despairing obedience.
John urged in a low worried tone, "Let's make a dash for our
roller--this is no place for you."
"No, this is horrible--we must see it through. Pretend to be sick and
go along."
"Don't be sentimental, Hilda. Get ready to run for it when we pass that
wall." He took her right hand in his left and snapped off the raditype.
"Now!"
She had no choice, but, as they ran around the corner of the wall, they
crashed into a group of surgeons coming toward the planes.
"Hold them!" cried Dr. Henderson. "They've done damage enough already.
Put them on a plane. Perhaps we can claim the first broadcast was an
impersonation, if they are gone."
John broke one pair of spectacles and started one nosebleed dripping
down a doctor's immaculate gown, but muscles haven't much chance
against the rigidity serum. He yielded to the hypodermic and did not
come to during the brief ambulance ride, nor while they were being
loaded onto the battered old Space Tramp. Hilda continued to scribble
her antiquated shorthand surreptitiously on the pad, but they had
appropriated her raditype. She was not given the rigidity serum until
she was strapped onto a sleeping shelf in the ship. Only a small group
of officers in the control room were conscious of the sudden inertia
strain, when the rockets thundered out through earth's atmosphere. All
the patients were mercifully in the long sleep that would seem like a
minute of time, when awakened after months of racing through silent
outer space.
* * * * *
John felt the prick of the needle that awakened him to consciousness,
through a vague haze of half forgetfulness. Suddenly he remembered, and
tore feverishly at the straps holding him down. In a moment he was free
from their restraint, but laughing in vexation at his forgetfulness
when his exertions threw him upward, and he hung suspended in the
cabin space dangling from the strap still held in his right hand. He
had forgotten they had left gravity behind. He pulled himself down
and seized the sleeping shelf with his left hand. Clinging to it, he
sidled along toward the forward port. Patients, under their straps as
he passed, were slowly coming back to life, and they stared at him
frightened, or amused or indifferent, according to their conditions.
The attendants had gone from the cabin. At last John could see through
a six foot plate of hardened glass. The view was slightly hazy, and
unreal. Below their plunging ship was the Red Planet, still a vague
sphere. The orange glow, familiar to earth telescopes, was gone now.
The vast stretches of red desert and darker marsh areas became faintly
distinguishable. Those regular lines of water channels from the
opposing polar caps became visible to the naked eye, and were far less
geometrical than earth pictures had shown them. It was summer in the
northern hemisphere, and its polar cap had receded.
The one previous expedition to this dying planet had been given little
publicity and John was fascinated by the view before him. At last
they entered the thin atmosphere. Instant by instant, the deserts and
low rounded hills grew visible. Lines of vegetation along the water
channels turned green. Finally, the forward jets of the ship roared and
John was crashed against the rear cabin wall, by the change of speed.
He crawled painfully back to his sleeping shelf and strapped himself
in. The rumor was true--He was on a ship of doom--and Hilda--where was
she? Had she escaped? There was nothing he could do. The ship screamed
into thicker, lower atmosphere and vibrations penetrated her thick hull.
John's memory of previous space trips told him they were nearly ready
to land. There was hardly a jar, as they grounded and tilted slowly to
rest. Sleepy eyed orderlies came in unsteadily, affected by the lighter
gravity. They were pushing a truck full of helmets and oxygen tanks,
which they deftly adjusted to the patients.
The men in this cabin were all able to walk and were soon outside
the air lock. Following them came stretcher bearers, street roller
ambulances, men on crutches, even a few of the more demented in
glassite water jackets, from which they peered with dull eyes, as if
they were drugged.
Hilda burst free from the second group of women and cried, "John! Oh,
John, I'm so glad to find you."
She threw her arms around him and pillowed her head on his shoulder. He
held her happily, his blood racing. This was a different girl from the
hard and casual newspaper woman. Suddenly, she recovered.
"Sorry. Guess I have the old time jitters--I'll try not to let it
happen again." She covered her gloved left hand with her right and
turned away. "See what a hopeless pitiful mob," she said, after a
moment.
"Yes, and I wonder what next. I've read that most of the old dwelling
places are underground. The Martians made their last stand against
desolation in cave cities."
"There's an entrance."
"Yes, and here come the guards."
The long procession of the lame, the blind, and the sick was soon in
weaving motion over red sand toward a great metal door set into a low
cliff. Their oxygen helmets bobbed almost comically. There were few
guards and these made little attempt at restraint. John and Hilda went
hand in hand toward a group in the lead, the seemingly able bodied ones.
"I suppose most of these are alcoholics and drug addicts," John
remarked, absently, as they followed.
"Maybe this will really cure them. They certainly can't escape or bribe
their way to intoxication here."
"What's the use of getting cured on this desert?"
"Don't give up, John. Oh, you're thinking that there will be no more
Elks Club balls!" She took his arm and smiled derisively.
"Yes, maybe--"
"And all the Susies, and Mabels, and Evelyns were left behind--Too bad!"
"Aw--cut it--We've got to figure out something--"
* * * * *
The guards were not unkind, but herded them like cattle, impersonally
and silently. The great steel door clanged, and they were able to
remove their helmets in the air conditioned interior.
This strange crowd of the banished drew together in a vast open cave,
dimly lighted by weak electric globes. In the distance they could hear
the throbbing of an old fashioned generator. Dr. Henderson stood on an
overturned packing case with one of the primitive sound amplifiers set
up before him. He spoke calmly now, more at ease than at home, as if
relieved.
"Men and women," he began, "we are not here to harm you. This great
experiment is being conducted in the interests of humanity. The
constant presence of the sick is disturbing to eugenic controls and
ideals. The Leader and the Earth Council have wisely established this
colony. You will still be treated by the best of our skill. Any who
recover will be placed in an isolated and independent colony. The
slightly crippled will be given handicraft and factory tasks. Their
products will be shipped to Earth and sold to maintain the supply line."
"Where do we live?" blurted a portly, middle aged man near John.
"There are separated quarters a few miles down the passage--Of course
rather primitive--but you can make yourselves fairly comfortable."
Hilda noticed one of the nurses standing near the Doctor. Her tightly
waved blonde hair was gleaming in the dim light near the speaker's
improvised platform. Her large blue eyes were slightly closed and
her full red lips sagged almost hopelessly, but she was strikingly
beautiful, with strong, clean cut features and a clear skin.
Beyond were other nurses and doctors in white uniforms, scattered like
lonely ghosts among the five hundred and more patients. Hilda wondered
what had induced these people to voluntarily leave the comforts of
civilization. Were they derelicts of time, idealists, or just out of
work?
"There is one difference in this colony," went on Dr. Henderson in a
lower tone. "If any of you find it too difficult to exist under the new
conditions, euthanasia will be permitted--a sleeping pill in the white
room--and your troubles are over."
"Yeah--and the state saves money!" snarled the white faced man who had
rebelled at the hospital entrance before them.
"It will be purely voluntary," said Dr. Henderson calmly.
"Oh, I'll bet they'll use hypnotics!" whispered Hilda, in a shocked
voice, "They'll make them want to--What a twisted code of ethics. They
don't dare to face their own attitudes. Such hypocrisy! Why not just
line us up and use the ray guns?"
Doctor Henderson ended his address with additional promises and then
stepped down. In a few minutes the crowd was broken up into small
units. John and Hilda walked with the group of alcoholics and arrested
mental cases. They began to talk and sought acquaintanceship to cancel
fear. It was almost a relief to leave the congregation of pain behind
them.
There was only one doctor with this group, Old Doctor Smithson, a
retired psychiatrist who had begun working at the district hospital
after losing his fortune in the stock market. He was now too old for
general practice. His thin, bent shoulders straightened as he walked.
His words became crisp and cheerful as if he welcomed the adventure.
With him were two nurses, Mary, the blonde girl Hilda had noticed, and
a little, red headed, freckled faced woman of indeterminate years.
Near Hilda and John walked Major Henry Mattson, a psychiatric casualty
of the war of 1960, seemingly cured. The rebellious one, twice noticed
by the reporters before, walked ahead. He said his name was Tony
Pacina. A tall, white haired man with thick glasses, recently cured of
a cataract, introduced himself as Mark Hemingway and said that he was a
chemist and had been in the surgery at the hospital for his operation
because of confidence in Dr. Henderson. If this should prove true his
accidental presence might be helpful.
* * * * *
Around them were the others they would seek to know later. The group
tramped briskly behind Dr. Smithson. They were the "cured" ones. With
health, happiness is possible anywhere. They felt themselves beginning
a strange comradeship, even cheerfulness.
"I wonder where they're taking us," said Hilda, clinging to John's arm
to keep up with the brisk pace, and laughing at the way a little jump
could lift her up and far ahead.
"I wonder, too. Well, Honey, if I must be cast away--I'm glad it's with
you."
She squeezed his arm, but said nothing. There was light ahead at the
end of the long tunnel. They entered a large open chamber.
It was not a luxurious room, but neither was it a prison. There was
sufficient heat, and the mattresses and sheets were clean. There were
two shower and bath rooms beyond but no ultra violet equipment. Cloth
curtains were hung to drop around their beds. One side of the room was
lined half way to the ceiling with frayed and battered books. One wall
had a moving picture screen. There was no television. One noted the
absence of buttons to push and gadgets for speed and comfort. There
were no sliding floors.
"Our legs will ache with all the walking in this city," said Hilda,
rather doubtfully.
"I'll like that. I'd enjoy developing a little muscle again."
"I wonder where those passages go. Do you suppose they'll permit us to
go out?"
"Let's see."
As they stepped to the door, Mary came forward and gave them each a
folded paper map, and a double holster holding a radilight and a gas
pellet gun. Hilda buckled hers on, laughing at its weight. John stared
at his thoughtfully.
"No real danger here," said the blonde nurse, "but our instruction
manuals say there are Mars rats--something like the jack rabbits on
western sage plains back home. They run around the cave area. Nothing
larger has been left in the passages. They aren't very good to eat,
so we just gas them and leave them to recover. Dr. Henderson wants a
reserve food supply in case of emergency. They are about twice the size
of rabbits back home, and their bite is infectious. If you go beyond
any of the air doors, you may need oxygen helmets, the atmosphere is
pretty thin. It will take you a bit of time to get used to the lighter
gravity, but that's sort of fun." She said it all with professional
cheeriness, as if it were memorized, but she paid very little attention
to them.
"Want to come along?" asked John.
"Sorry. I have to stay here to help Dr. Smithson. I'd like to--maybe
another time. We are both on duty today." She smiled, and the settled
sadness of her face was gone for a moment.
"Well, thanks," said John, unfolding his map slowly.
"Oh, yes," she added, "and never go beyond sight of the entrance if you
go out on the desert. You can see for miles even though the horizon
is nearer up here. If danger comes you can make it back to the door
easily. But there are very unpleasant things on this planet. The safety
is all underground. Maybe you'd better have one of the manuals. It will
be light outside and you can read." She took a thin booklet from the
bundle of papers in her hand and gave it to Hilda, then walked briskly
away.
They pushed open the room door, and stepped cautiously down a dry, dark
passageway. Old marks of ray blast on the sandstone walls showed that
all this underground world was artificial. Red desert sand underfoot
was hard, dry and clean.
"Oh, John, it does seem good to be by ourselves again. All these sick
folks depress me."
"Yes, and what depresses me is how I'm going to get you back to Earth.
It may be months before another ship comes. And they won't dare to let
us go back and tell, until the experiment is well established." He
folded the map carefully.
"Think of all the hundreds of families back home who must be frantic."
John's voice was savage as he answered, "I found out a bit about that
from the Major. It seems that every family got a printed letter,
telling about the new colony and claiming it was mostly for the good
of the patients. And there is a systematic health propaganda planned
to follow that up, conditioning the minds of their relatives to the
undertaking in all its implications. I believe the patients are even
allowed to write letters--censored, of course, and delivered once in
two years. You know there is no radio contact."
They walked on, in understanding silence, until she took his arm and
indicated a great copper door. "Look, John, on the map it says that
door 101 is an outside entrance. Let's go and see."