The sound of his cell door opening awakened Joel the next morning. It
was a new guard, he saw with disappointment, a perfectly normal human,
smelling of tobacco, sweat and stale clothes--a man-like unmistakable
odor.
They went into an elevator and so to the roof where the police
helicopter was waiting. Joel climbed into the cab, looked out the
window as the 'copter rose smoothly into the air.
The rim of the sun was showing above a low range of wooded hills. The
town of Clear Springs was bathed in limpid morning light. With a catch
in his throat he caught sight of the sun deck of his own home. They
would still be abed there--his mother and father and his ex-wife.
It was strange to think that he'd never see them again. It made him
realize the finality of this journey.
A human guinea-pig!
They had been traveling for several hours when his eyes were attracted
by the sparkle of sunlight dead ahead. Then he made out a huge plastic
dome cupping hundreds of acres.
The Experimental Station!
The police 'copter lit with a slight jar on the thick green sward of
the landing field. Joel climbed down stiffly.
Seen from the ground, the structure took his breath away. It was a
tremendous dome of clear plastic like a glass beehive. Thousands of
tiny figures could be seen moving about its many levels.
No tree grew around the hive. On all sides gently rolling meadows
studded with grazing sheep, goats and cattle fell away, for miles.
He began to appreciate why no prisoner had escaped from the station in
over a hundred years!
A guard challenged them at the entrance.
Joel's escort produced his papers and the circular plastic gate rolled
ponderously aside.
They walked down a short corridor and were challenged a second time.
Joel heard the gate roll back, roll shut. A feeling of helplessness
swept over him.
It was the door of life, he thought, that had shut behind him.
* * * * *
The white-suited attendant who had signed the receipt for Joel led him
into one of the opaque offices, where a stout man in a white smock sat
behind a black plastic desk.
"A new arrival, sir," said the attendant. "Name of Joel Hakkyt from
Clear Springs Community. Convicted on two counts. Maladjustment and
manslaughter."
"Ahh," wheezed the stout man and eased himself back in his chair. Joel
noticed that his eyebrows slanted upward giving a sardonic cast to his
rubicund countenance.
The attendant laid the papers softly on the ebony desk and withdrew.
There was a strong antiseptic smell to the station. It clung to
everything, the offices and corridors, the inmates and attendants. It
was so strong that it baffled Joel's keen scent.
"Manslaughter." The stout man, picked up the papers, glanced at them
briefly. "I see you underwent examination as a child for abnormal
vision."
"Yes," agreed Joel, "I've a much higher percentage of light sensitive
rods in my eyes than average. I've always been able to see about as
well after dark as a cat."
"What did the Eugenics Board say?"
Joel's homely features broke into a grin. "They had their hands full
explaining how they let me slip past when I was born."
"There wasn't anything done about it?"
"Oh, I was put under observation. They decided it was a harmless
aberration, but I was forbidden to reproduce."
"But I see you were allowed to marry?"
"My wife was not considered good breeding stock either."
"I see." The fat man pursed his lips, gave Joel an appraising glance.
"How did you happen to kill your superior at the State Cattle Farm?"
Joel's face darkened.
"It was an accident. I hit him with my fist. I hit him too hard and
broke his neck."
"Roll up your sleeve!"
Joel did so in surprise. He glanced down. With a start he saw that
the puncture where the humanoid guard had inserted the needle was
fluorescing a vivid green. The room must be bathed in black light!
Involuntarily he jerked down the sleeve.
"It's all right," said the stout man. "It's what I was looking for."
"What does it mean?" Joel asked when he had recovered from his surprise.
"Mean? It means that you're a legitimate maladjustment case and not a
damned spy sent in here by the Senate."
"But...."
The fat man lifted his hand. He said, "I'm Doctor Chedwick, Emile
Chedwick. I'm in charge of induction. Sit down, my boy."
Joel sank suspiciously into a relaxer. Doctor Chedwick drummed on the
shiny black desk top.
"Understand," he began, "the men and women who are sentenced to the
Experimental Station expect to die. And sooner or later they all do
die. Some of them rather horribly."
Joel began to fidget. He knew this. Everyone knew it.
"What you don't know," said Doctor Chedwick almost as if reading Joel's
mind, "is that there is a chance for you to escape this!"
Joel went rigid. He leaned forward, his eyes fastened on the pale gray
eyes of the man behind the desk.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. There's an acute labor shortage on Asgard, second
planet of Alpha Centauri A. Last year the planters petitioned the
Senate to assign them a number of malcontents from the Experimental
Stations. There has been an alarming increase in maladjusted cases
recently. More than the stations could handle. The Senate jumped at the
chance to get rid of the excess."