At the coldly gleaming Experimental Station
they flung this choice in Outlaw Joel Hakkyt's
teeth: "Grinding, endless slavery on Asgard,
that Alpha Centauri hell--or a writhing, screaming
guinea-pig's death here?" He chose Asgard,
naturally. But what was natural--on Asgard?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Joel Hakkyt stirred impatiently in the prisoner's chair. His features,
homely, strong-boned and intelligent, were inscrutable. But he didn't
know how much longer he could bottle up his indignation. It had been
accumulating all during his trial. Now this delay!
The machines had been whisked from the chamber. The investigating
psychologist should have returned with his verdict minutes ago. What
was wrong?
Joel glanced at his parents, at his wife. They were the only
spectators, the three of them sitting stiffly in the front row of
benches.
Doctor Hakkyt refused to meet his son's eyes. A plump, tall man,
the doctor looked stonily out the windows at the park-like grounds
surrounding the Hall of Justice. He was president of Clear Springs
Community, and his angry red expression said plainly as words that his
son had disgraced him.
Mrs. Hakkyt dabbed at cold eyes with a scrap of handkerchief. Joel's
glance passed over her swiftly and on to his wife.
She sat next to his mother with a notebook on her knee, a pencil poised
in her hand. Joel's wife was a specialist in creative writing, and
all through his trial, she had watched him with the same impersonal
curiosity she might have bestowed on some animal, jotting down his
reactions.
In sudden disgust, Joel wondered why he had consented to marry her.
It had been her looks, he supposed. She had a sensual rather pretty
face....
A panel behind the bench clicked loudly in the silence. The guard stood
up, saying: "Attention, please."
It was a useless formality, because everyone's eyes had jerked
instantly to the slowly opening door.
The investigating psychologist bustled in, sat down behind his desk. He
arranged his black gown with a tug, rattled the papers in his hand.
"An unusual case," he began. "Unusual in several respects!" He turned
his eyes on Joel's father. "The examination reveals that the prisoner
is possessed of a high I.Q. Very high. However, he is completely
maladjusted. A dangerous anti-social type. He is to be committed to the
Experimental Station at once!"
Joel caught his breath. The Experimental Station!
Criminals and the maladjusted were committed to the Experimental
Stations where they were used as guinea-pigs by the scientists. They
might live for years, surviving experiment after experiment. But
inexorably like the early Roman gladiators they met a ghastly fate.
Doctor Hakkyt had risen furiously. "This is preposterous! Think of the
notoriety! I'm the president of...."
"That will be sufficient!" the investigating psychologist interrupted.
"The prisoner is thirty-four years old. This is the third time he's
been up for examination. All the rehabilitative measures have failed!"
Doctor Hakkyt sank back muttering into his seat.
The psychologist rattled his papers again, fixed Joel's wife with a
softer glance. "Annulment orders for your marriage, Mrs. Hakkyt, have
been forwarded to the capitol. You are free."
"Thank you," said the young woman without glancing up from her notes.
The investigating psychologist wiped his sharp features with a
handkerchief and said: "Court dismissed."
Joel watched his father and mother rise. They didn't glance at him. The
psychologist cleared his throat.
"If you wish to say goodbye to the prisoner...."
Doctor Hakkyt wheeled angrily. "That won't be necessary. As far as my
wife and I are concerned, the prisoner is already dead!"
Pompously, he took Mrs. Hakkyt's arm, steered her to the exit. Joel's
wife closed her notebook with a snap, trotted out after them without a
backward glance.
Only their scent, that unique volatile compound that was as expressive
to Joel Hakkyt's sensitive nostrils as a picture, lingered behind.
It was atavistic, Joel supposed, but his sense of smell was as acute as
any hound's!
* * * * *
Joel shrugged, rose from the prisoner's chair. He looked big, burly
beside the fragile guard. There was something appealing about his
strong homely features--a quizzical directness, an honesty.
"Come along," said the guard.
Joel's nostrils flared as he caught the guard's scent for the first
time. It was man-like and yet alien--a curious unrecognizable smell
that raised the hair on the back of his neck!
The guard seemed unaware of Joel's scrutiny. He was a thin elderly man
in the Republic's blue and yellow uniform. His eyes were hidden behind
dark glasses.
"Come along," the guard repeated, and Joel permitted himself to be led
into the corridor that ran back to the cells.
The door had scarcely closed on the courtroom, when the guard said in
an altered tone, "Keep walking. And don't say a word once we reach the
cells. Spy recorders have been installed in all of them!"