[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Wives always try to cure husbands of
bad habits, even on lonely asteroids!
You must understand that Palmer loved his wife as much as ever, or he
would never have thought of his simple little scheme at all. It was
entirely for her own good, as he had told himself a dozen times in
the past day. And with that he stilled whatever qualms of conscience
he might otherwise have had. He didn't think of himself as being
something of a murderer.
She was sitting at the artificial fireplace, a cheerful relic of
ancient days, reading just as peacefully as if she had been back home
on Mars, instead of on this desolate outpost of space. She had adjusted
quickly to the loneliness and the strangeness of this life--to the
absence of friends, the need for conserving air, the strange feeling of
an artificial gravity that varied slightly at the whim of impurities in
the station fuel. To everything, in fact, but her husband.
She seemed to sense his eyes on her, for she looked up and smiled.
"Feeling all right, dear?" she asked.
"Naturally. How about you?"
"As well as can be expected."
"Not very good, then."
She didn't reply, and he thought, _She hates to admit it, but she
really envies me. Well, I'll fix it so that she needn't any more._ And
he stared through the thick, transparent metal window at the beauty of
the stars, their light undimmed by dust or atmosphere.
The stories told about the wretchedness of the lighthouse keepers who
lived on asteroids didn't apply at all to this particular bit of cosmic
rock. Life here had been wonderful, incredibly satisfying. At least it
had been that way for him. And now it would be the same way for his
wife as well.
He would have denied it hotly if you had accused him of finding
her repulsive. But to certain drunks, the sober man or woman is an
offense, and Palmer was much more than a drunk. He was a marak addict,
and in the eyes of the marak fiends, all things and all people were
wonderful, except those who did not share their taste for the drug. The
latter were miserable, depraved creatures, practically subhuman.
Of course that was not the way most of them put it. Certainly it was
not the way Palmer did. He regarded his wife, he told himself, as an
unfortunate individual whom he loved very much, one whom it was his
duty to make happy. That her new-found happiness would also hasten
her death was merely an unfortunate coincidence. She was sure to die
anyway, before long, so why not have her live out her last days in the
peace and contentment that only marak could bring?
Louise herself would have had an answer to that, if he had ever put the
question to her. He was careful never to do so.
She laid the book aside and looked up at him again. She said, "Jim,
darling, do you think you could get the television set working again?"
"Not without a mesotron rectifier."
"Even the radio would be a comfort."
"It wouldn't do any good, any way. Too much static from both Mars and
Earth this time of year."
That was the beauty of the marak, he thought. It changed his mood,
and left him calm and in full command of his faculties, able to handle
any problem that came up. He himself, of course, missed neither the
radio nor the television, and he never touched the fine library of
micro-books. He didn't need them.
A shadow flitted by outside the thick window, blotting out for a moment
the blaze of stars. It was the shadow of death, as he knew, and he was
able to smile even at that. Even death was wonderful. When it finally
came, it would find him happy. He would not shudder away from it, as he
saw Louise doing now at the sight of the ominous shadow.
He smiled at his wife again, remembering the six years they had lived
together. It had been a short married life, but--again the word
suggested itself to him--a wonderful one. There had been only one
quarrel of importance, in the second year, and after that they had got
along perfectly. And then, two years ago, he had begun to take marak,
and after that he couldn't have quarreled with anyone. It was a paragon
among drugs, and it was one of the mysteries of his existence that
anybody should object to his using it.
Louise had tried to argue with him after she had found out, but he had
turned every exchange of views into a peaceful discussion, which from
his side, at least, was brimming over with good humor. He had even
been good-humored when she tried to slip the antidote into his food.
It was this attitude of his that had so often left her baffled and
enraged, and he had a good chuckle out of that, too. Imagine a wife
getting angry because her husband was too good-natured.
But she was never going to get angry again. He would see to that. Not
after tonight. A big change was going to take place in her life.
She had picked up another book, and for the moment he pitied her. He
knew that she wasn't interested in any books. She was merely restless,
looking for something to do with herself, seeking some method of
killing time before the shadows outside killed it for her for good and
all. She couldn't understand his being so peaceful and contented, doing
nothing at all.
She threw the second book down and snarled--yes, that was the word,
"You're such a fool, Jim! You sit there, smug and sure of yourself,
your mind blank, just waiting--waiting for them to kill you and me. And
you seem actually happy when I mention it."
"I'm happy at anything and everything, dear."
"At the thought of dying too?"
"Living or dying--it doesn't make any difference. Whatever happens,
I'm incapable of being unhappy."
"If it weren't for the drug, we'd both live. You'd think of a way to
kill them before they killed us."
"There is no way."
"There must be. You just can't think of it while the drug has you in
its grip."
"The drug doesn't have you, dear." He asked without sarcasm, "Why don't
you think of a way?"
"Because I lack the training you have. Because I don't have the
scientific knowledge, and all the equipment scattered around means
nothing to me."
"There's nothing to be done."