Doctor Chedwick shrugged. "Would you rather work on the plantations or
die in some experiment?"
"Why--why--" Joel burst out, "I'd rather work!"
"Exactly. So would the others."
Joel said, "But why the tattoo mark? Why all the secrecy? And the
guard. What is the guard?"
"The less you know about that the safer you'll be." Doctor Chedwick's
mouth shut like a trap. He stabbed at a button on his desk. "You'll be
contacted on Asgard. Everything will be explained then. Meanwhile say
nothing about the tattoo mark. Say nothing about our conversation to
any one. Understand?"
Joel nodded.
The door opened and the attendant reappeared.
Doctor Chedwick said, "Put this man in 745B. He's had training and
practical experience in animal husbandry and he's husky as an ox. He's
to be shipped to Asgard with the next labor battalion. Take him away."
* * * * *
The attendant turned Joel over to a guard who escorted him from the
offices into the clear plastic division of the dome. It was like
stepping out into space. He sucked in his breath. He could see straight
down through level after level for hundreds of feet.
Dormitories lined the passage on either hand. He could see men and
women asleep in their bunks, sitting at tables, taking showers or
dressing. The transparent walls were soundproof, and Joel experienced
the peculiar sensation of walking through an animated silence.
They were approaching a small ante chamber that must be a guard room.
Half a dozen armed and uniformed men were sitting about a table playing
cards.
Beyond the transparent walls of the guard room Joel could see into
another chamber. It was long and low and lined with bunks like the
fo'cs'le of a spaceship. Forty or fifty people in gray were milling
about two men on the floor who seemed to be doing their best to murder
each other.
"Here's a new guinea-pig for the labor battalion, Captain," said Joel's
escort, pushing him into the guard room.
With a grunt of annoyance, a tall man rose from the table and surveyed
Joel with bleak gray eyes. His blue tunic was unbuttoned at the
throat, his holster pushed around in back.
"Papers," he snapped.
Joel's escort handed over a folder, which the captain took to his desk.
Joel's eyes returned to the next room. It was like being in a
soundproof broadcasting cage, watching two men batter at each other
beyond the glass.
One of the men had the other by the throat and was throttling him. The
strangler's arms were corded; his face shone with sweat; there was an
insane fixed glare in his eyes. The other man's tongue was protruding,
as he tore at his assailant's wrists.
"My God!" Joel burst out. "Aren't you going to break it up?"
"Let them kill themselves," said the captain indifferently. He opened
the door. "In with you," he said and shoved Joel into the melee.
Bedlam burst on his ears as he stumbled into the room.
A woman was screaming in a shrill hysterical voice. The men milled
about pushing to see better. No one paid any attention to him.
He clenched his fists. He couldn't stand by and watch a man murdered.
Impulsively, he shouldered through the press, got his hands on the
strangler's wrists, tore them away.
"Here!" somebody yelled. "Leave 'em be, you fool!"
He ignored the warning, heaved the man from his victim.
The fellow came to his feet, stared at him with that glazed intensity
as if he didn't realize what had happened. Then without a sound he
hurled himself at Joel's throat!