Yorkan Varr was exiled to the prison
planet for a crime he knew he had
never committed. Oddly, the man who
had sent him there was a prisoner too!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"We're coming close to Earth now, Yorkan Varr," said the patrolman.
"We'll be dumping you any minute now."
The man addressed as Yorkan Varr scowled bitterly. "You're making a
mistake, I tell you. I didn't kill that man. I didn't even know him!"
The patrolman shrugged. "Sorry, but that's the way things go. The court
said you're guilty--and here you are. Don't jump on me. I'm just doing
my job."
Yorkan Varr made no reply. There was no sense arguing with the
patrolman, after all. There was no sense arguing with anyone.
He got up and stared out the viewplate at the mottled, spinning globe
of Earth below, growing closer every moment, and his thin lips curled
in an angry grimace. _Earth._ The garbage world, the dumping-ground
for the Galaxy's undesirables. Who'd ever imagine that he--Yorkan
Varr--would someday be approaching Earth for a life of exile?
He whirled to face the unsmiling patrolman. "Dammit, Hober, I _didn't_
kill him! You can't throw me into that refuse-heap down there! You
can't do it!"
"Please, Yorkan Varr. We're approaching the moment when we must part."
The patrolman held out a hand. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you.
It's my job, that's all. Shake?"
Yorkan Varr stared at the extended hand for a moment, then slapped it
away. The patrolman smiled apologetically and rang a bell. Three other
men, also in the bronze uniform of the Condelari Federation, appeared
from within and saluted.
"Get the disposal ship ready," the patrolman ordered.
"Yes, sir."
Hober turned to Yorkan Varr. "Come on, now. Let's go down and get ready
to go to Earth, shall we?"
With a half-sobbing cry, Yorkan Varr threw himself forward on the
patrolman. His fists pounded mercilessly into the amazed man as he
released the pent-up emotions of the nightmarish trial, the sentence,
the journey across space to Earth.
"Help! Help!"
Varr felt hands grasp him from behind. Blind with rage, he let go of
Hober, struck out at the others, felt his fists crack satisfyingly
into flesh.
Then there was the chilling numbness of a stunbeam, and Varr froze.
"All right," he heard someone say. "Let's load him aboard the disposal
rocket. They all crack up this way, I guess."
He felt hands lift him, felt himself being carried down a ladder
and into a cooler room. Then he blanked out as a sudden thrust of
acceleration struck him. His last conscious thought was that he was
now on the last leg of his one-way journey to Earth, condemned to the
dumping-ground of the universe for a crime he never committed.
_I didn't kill him_, he thought fiercely. _I didn't kill him._
When he awoke, he found himself lying in a wooded area. He sat up in
the grass and tried to get his bearings. He was dressed in rough,
oddly-cut clothing, and in his hand was a letter-capsule. He broke it
open and read the note inside.
_To Yorkan Varr_:
_You have been accused and found guilty of the crime of murder.
Therefore, you have been placed on the planet Sol III to live out
the rest of your natural life._
_However, in order that you may not be helpless, we have provided
you with clothing, money, and identification. You will be able to
get along in this society if you are careful. We warn you, however,
that the people of this planet actually kill for punishment of
certain crimes. Govern yourself accordingly._
_The Council of Judges._
As Yorkan read the last line, the message paper faded, grayed, and
crumbled in his hand. It became a powder and fell, like fine ash, from
his fingers.
And with it went the last thing that connected him with the Condelari
Federation.
Yorkan stood up and looked up at the stars. _I know who did it_, he
thought. _But I couldn't prove it._
He had seen the man's face just before he had blanked out from the
stungun. When he had awakened, he found himself with a corpse and a
charge of murder against him.
He looked down at himself again. His suit was coarsely woven and crude.
He reached instinctively into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. The
cards in it said he was John Arthur Stern, a retired war veteran who
had been badly wounded during his service in the United Nations Police,
during the African Insurrection of 1986.
"Well, fine," he said bitterly to the trees around him. "Where does
that get me?"
"You're an Earthman now," said a voice. "That's what you'll have to
remember."
Yorkan whirled at the sound of the soft, liquid voice.
"Who's that?" He found himself using English, the predominant language
of this part of the exile planet. The language had been hypnotically
implanted in his brain.
The girl was standing less than ten yards from him. In the moonlight,
her hair and skin seemed almost silvery. She was light of complexion,
he realized, and her hair was a light red-blonde. "Who the devil are
you?"
She smiled a little and walked toward him. He felt a little odd; here
he was, in a wood on a primitive planet, knowing almost nothing of the
civilization that surrounded him, confronted by an Earthgirl who seemed
to know him.
"It's a shock, I know," she was saying, "but you'll get over it. I know
where you came from; you're a Condelarian. You've been exiled to this
planet. We don't ask why you were sent here, nor what you did, nor what
your real name is. What's the name on your identity card?"
"Stern," he said. "John Arthur Stern. But that doesn't explain why
you're here."
The smile left her face. "We're all exiles here; the Group is composed
entirely of exiles. We keep tabs on the prison ships that bring new
offenders here, and we try to meet each one and tell them what's going
on on this planet."
"And who are you?" he asked.
"Elizabeth Kirk is the name I was given. And as far as we are both
concerned, that's my name."
"Very well, Elizabeth. Now, would you kindly explain what's going on?"
He didn't trust the girl.
She stopped a few feet away, evidently realizing his suspicions.
"Several hundred of us have been exiled here in the past few years,"
she explained. "We have been able to contact each other for our mutual
protection. We help each other to learn to get along with the native
Earthmen."
"Is that all?" He felt that the Group--whatever it was--must be doing
more than that.
"Come with me," Elizabeth said. "I'll take you to the Group. They can
explain everything. Our leader will tell you all about it."
Yorkan--no, _Stern_. He'd have to think of himself as Stern from now
on--Stern followed the girl out of the wooded area. There was an
automobile parked near a winding ribbon of road. She got behind the
wheel and started the engine. The turboelectric motor whirred softly,
and the car started down the highway.
"We're near Suffern, New York," the girl told him conversationally.
"It's about an hour's drive from New York City itself."
The names brought forth hypnotically implanted memories in Stern's
mind. But he found he didn't care where he was, really; all he wanted
to do was get away from this planet--to prove, somehow, that he was
innocent of the crime of which he had been accused.
The girl evidently sensed that her passenger didn't want to talk,
because she didn't say another word during the drive into the city.
Stern didn't ask any questions; he wanted to think things out for
himself. Besides, he had a hunch that he wouldn't get any satisfactory
answers if he did ask her questions.
* * * * *
It was almost dawn when the car pulled up in front of the huge glass
and aluminum building at 582 Fifth Avenue. The girl parked the car and
opened the door. Then she spoke for the first time in over an hour.
"Shall we go in?"
John Stern grinned bitterly. "I may as well; what other choice do I
have?"
"None, really," she said. "Come along."
She produced a key to the front door of the building, twisted it in
the lock, and swung open one of the glass doors. Stern followed her to
the bank of elevators, where she produced another key, unlocked the
elevator, and ushered him inside.
She pushed the control button, and the car lifted rapidly.
Stern grinned inwardly. He was amused at his own helplessness. He knew
very little about this world, so he couldn't turn down an opportunity
to learn something about it, but he still felt as though he were being
pushed into something he didn't like.
He wasn't going to let himself be pushed; that much he was sure of.
Sol Three--Earth--was a dumping ground for criminals; what right did
criminals have in organizing a group of their own? And how had they
done it?
Yorkan Varr--now John Stern--didn't feel himself a criminal. He knew
he had done nothing wrong; the evidence against him in the Galactic
Court had been damning, but he knew that the Council of Judges had done
the only thing they could have done at the time. He didn't hold any
grudge against them; they had done what was right, what was in the real
interests of civilization and the Condelari Federation.
Therefore, he felt that any group of criminals who organized against
the Federation was definitely in the wrong.