man sighed heavily. "You might say a revolution has been going on since
I can remember, though most villagers don't know it. We've just been
waiting our time. Now we've stopped waiting and the rifles will be
coming out--rifles made in village shops. The villages are going to
rebel, even if we're all dead of plague in a month."
Doc Feldman nodded and reached for the bracky. He knew that this was
their way of trying to make him feel his work hadn't been for nothing,
and he was grateful for Wilson's visit. "It was a good year for me.
Damned good. But time's running short. I'd better brief you on the
latest on the plague."
Wilson began making notes until Doc was finished. Finally he got up as
steps sounded from the hall. "Anything else?"
"Just a guess. A lot of Earth germs can't live in Mars-normal flesh;
maybe this can't live in Earth-normal. Tell them so long for me."
"So long, Doc." He shook hands briefly and was waiting at the door when
the guard opened it.
An hour later, the Lobby police took Feldman to the Northport shuttle
rocket. They had some trouble on the way; a runner cut down the street,
with the crowds frantically rushing out of his way. Terror was reaching
the cities already.
Doc flashed a look at Chris. "Mob hysteria. Like flying saucers and
wriggly tops, I suppose?" he asked, before the guard could stop him.
They locked his legs, but left his hands free in the rocket. He unfolded
the paper Wilson had brought and buried his face in it. Then he swore.
They _were_ explaining the runners as a case of mob hysteria!
Northport was calmer. Apparently they had yet to have first-hand
experience with the plague. But now nothing seemed quite real to Doc,
even when they locked him into the big Northport jail. The whole ritual
of the Lobbies seemed like a fantasy after the villages.
It snapped back into focus, however, when they led him into the trial
room of the Medical Lobby building. It was a smaller version of his
trial on Earth. Fear washed in by association. The complete lack of
humanity in the procedure was something from a half-remembered and
horrible past.
The presiding officer asked the routine question: "Is the prisoner
represented by counsel?"
Blane, the dapper little prosecutor, arose quickly. "The prisoner is a
pariah, Sir Magistrate."
"Very well. The court will accept the protective function for the
prisoner. You may proceed."
_I'll be judge, I'll be jury._ And prosecution and defense. It made for
a lot less trouble. Of course, if Space Lobby had asserted interest, it
would have gone to a supposedly neutral court. But as usual, Space was
happy to leave it in the hands of Medical.
The tape was played as evidence. Doc frowned. The words were his, but
there had been a lot of editing that subtly changed the import of his
notes.
"I protest," he challenged. "It's not an accurate version."
The Lobby magistrate turned a wooden face to him. "Does the prisoner
have a different version to introduce?"
"No, but--"
"The evidence is accepted. One of the prisoner's six protests will be
charged against him."
Blane smiled smoothly and held up a small package. "We wish to introduce
this drug as evidence that the prisoner is a confirmed addict, morally
irresponsible under addiction. This is a package of so-called bracky
weed, a vile and noxious substance found in his possession."
"It has alkaloids no more harmful than nicotine," Feldman stated
sharply.
"Do you contend that you find the taste pleasing?" Blane asked.
"It's bitter, but I've gotten used to it."
"I've tasted it," the magistrate said. "Evidence accepted. Two
deductions, one for irregularity of presentation."
Doc shrugged and sat back. He'd tested his rights and found what he
expected. It was hard to see now how he had ever accepted such
procedure. Jake must be right; they'd been in power too long, and were
making the mistake of taking the velvet glove off the iron fist and
flailing about for the sheer pleasure of power.
It dragged on, while he became a greater and greater monster on the
record. But finally it was over, and the magistrate turned to Feldman.
"You may present your defense."
"I ask complete freedom of expression," Doc said formally.
The magistrate nodded. "This is a closed court. Permission granted. The
recording will be scrambled."
The last bit ruined most of the purpose Doc had in mind. But it was too
late to change. He could only hope that some one of the Medical men
present would remember something of what he said.
"I have nothing to say for myself," he began. "It would be useless. But
I had to do what I did. There's a plague outside. I've studied that
plague, and I have knowledge which must be used against it...."
He sat down in three minutes. It had been useless.
Blane arose, with a smile still plastered on his face. "We, of course,
recognize the existence of a new contagion, but I believe we have
established that this is one disseminated by the prisoner himself, and
probably not directly contagious. There have been many cases of fanatics
ready to destroy humanity to eliminate those they hate. Now, surely, the
prisoner has himself left no question of his attitude. He asserts he has
knowledge and skill greater than the entire Medical Research staff. He
has attempted to intimidate us by threats. He is clearly psychopathic,
and dangerously so. The prosecution rests."
The guards took Doc into the anteroom, where he was supposed to hear
nothing that went on. But their curiosity was stronger than their
discretion, and the door remained a trifle ajar.
The magistrate began the discussion. "The case seems firm enough. It's
fortunate Dr. Ryan acted so quickly, with some of the people getting
nervous. Perhaps it might be wise to publicize our verdict."
"My thought exactly," Blane agreed. "If we show Feldman is responsible
and that Medical is eliminating the source of the infection, it may have
a stabilizing effect."
"Let's hope so. The sentence will have to be death, of course. We can't
let such a rebellious psychopath live. But this needs something more, it
seems. You've prepared a recommendation, I suppose."
"There was the case of Albrecht Delier," Blane suggested. "Something
like that should have good publicity impact."
It struck Doc that they sounded as if they believed themselves--as the
witch-burners had believed in witches. He was sweating when the guards
led him before the bench.
The magistrate rolled a pen slowly across his fingers as his eyes raked
Feldman. "Pariah Daniel Feldman, you have been found guilty on all
counts. Furthermore, your guilt must be shared by that entire section of
Mars known as the villages. Therefore the entire section shall be banned
and forbidden any and all services of the Medical Lobby for a period of
one year."
"Sir Magistrate!" One of the members of Southport Hospital staff was on
his feet. "Sir Magistrate, we can't cut them off completely."
"We must, Dr. Harkness. I appreciate the fine humanitarian tradition of
our Lobby which lies behind your protest, but at such a time as this the
good of the body politic requires drastic measures. Why not see me after
court, and we can discuss it then?"
He turned back to Feldman, and his face was severe.
"The same education which has produced such fine young men as Dr.
Harkness was wasted on you and perverted to endanger the whole race. No
punishment can equal your crimes, but there is one previously invoked
for a particularly horrible case, and it seems fitting that you should
be the fourth so sentenced.
"Daniel Feldman, you are sentenced to be taken in to space beyond
planetary limits, together with all material used by you in the
furtherance of your criminal acts. There you shall be placed into a
spacesuit containing sufficient oxygen for one hour of life, and no
more. You and your contaminated possessions shall then be released into
space, to drift there through all eternity as a warning to other men.
"This sentence shall be executed at the earliest possible moment, and
Dr. Christina Ryan is hereby commissioned to observe such execution. And
may God have mercy on your soul!"
X
Execution
The hours of waiting were blurred for Doc. There were periods when fear
clogged his throat and left him gasping with the need to scream and beat
his cell walls. There were also times when it didn't seem to matter, and
when his only thoughts were for the villages and the plague.
They brought him the papers, where he was painted as a monster beside
whom Jack the Ripper and Albrecht Delier were gentle amateurs. They were
trying to focus all fear and resentment on him. Maybe it was working.
There were screaming crowds outside the jail, and the noise of their
hatred was strong enough to carry through even the atmosphere of Mars.
But there were also signs that the Lobby was worried, as if afraid that
some attempt might still be made to rescue him.
He'd looked forward to the trip to the airport as a way of judging
public reaction. But apparently the Lobby had no desire to test that.
The guards led him up to the roof of the jail, where a rocket was
waiting. The landing space was too small for one of the station
shuttles, but a little Northport-Southport shuttle was parked there
after what must have been a difficult set-down. The guards tested Doc's
manacles and forced him into the shuttle.
Inside, Chris was waiting, carrying an official automatic. There was
also a young pilot, looking nervous and unhappy. He was muttering under
his breath as the guards locked Doc's legs to a seat and left.
"All right," Chris ordered. "Up ship!"
"I tell you we're overweight with you. I wasn't counting on three for
the trip," the pilot protested. "The only thing that will get this into
orbit with the station is faith. I'm loaded with every drop of fuel
she'll hold and it still isn't enough."
"That's your problem," Chris told him firmly. "You've got your orders,
and so have I. Up ship!"
If she had her own worries about the shuttle, she didn't show it. Chris
had never been afraid to do what she felt she should. The pilot stared
at her doubtfully and finally turned back to his controls, still
muttering.
The shuttle lifted sluggishly, but there was no great difficulty. Doc
could see that there was even some fuel remaining when they slipped into
the tube at the orbital station. Chris went out, and other guards came
in to free him.
"So long, Dr. Feldman," the pilot called softly as they led him out.
Then the guards shoved him through the airlock into the station. Fifteen
minutes later he was locked into one of the cabins of the _Iroquois_,
with all his possessions stacked beside him.
He grinned wryly. As an honest worker on the _Navaho_ he'd been treated
like an animal. Now, as a human fiend, he was installed in a luxury
cabin of the finest ship of the fleet, with constant spin to give a
feeling of weight and more room than the entire tube crew had known.
He roamed the cabin until he found a little collapsible table. He set
the electron microscope up on that and plugged it in. It seemed a shame
that good equipment should be wasted along with his life. He wondered
if they would really throw it out into space with him. Probably they
would.
He pushed a button on the call board over the table and asked for the
steward. There was a long wait, as if the procedure were being checked
with some authority, but finally he received a surly acknowledgement.
"Steward. Whatcha want?"
"How's the chance of getting some food?"
"You're on first-class."
They could afford it, Doc decided. He wouldn't cost them much,
considering the distance he was going. "Bring me two complete
dinners--one Earth-normal and one Mars-normal."
"Okay, Feldman. But if you think you can suicide that way, you're wrong.
You may be sick, but you'll be alive when they dump you."
A sharp click interrupted him. "That's enough, Steward. Captain Everts
speaking. Dr. Feldman, you have my apologies. Until you reach your
destination, you are my passenger and entitled to every consideration of
any other passenger except freedom of movement through the ship. I am
always available for legitimate complaints."
Feldman shook his head. He'd heard of such men. But he'd thought the
species extinct.
The steward brought his food in a thoroughly chastened manner. He
managed to find space for it and came to attention. "Is that all--sir?"
For a moment, as the smell of real steak reached him, Doc regretted the
fact that his metabolism had been switched. Then he shrugged. A little
wouldn't hurt him, though there was no proper nourishment in it. He
squeezed some of the gravy and bits of meat into one of his bottles,
sticking to his purpose; then he fell to on the rest. But after a few
bites, it was queerly unsatisfactory. The seemingly unappealing
Mars-normal ragout suited his current tastes better, after all.
Once the steward had cleared away the dishes, Doc went to work. It was
better than wasting his time in dread. He might even be able to leave
some notes behind.
A gong sounded, and a red light warned him that acceleration was due. He
finished with his bottles, put them into the incubator, and piled into
his bunk, swallowing one of the tablets of morphetal the ship furnished.
Acceleration had ended, and a simple breakfast was waiting when he
awoke. There was also a red flashing light over the call board. He
flipped the switch while reaching for the coffee.
"Captain Everts," the speaker said. "May I join you in your cabin?"
"Come ahead," Feldman invited. He cut off the switch and glanced at the
clock on the wall. There were less than eleven hours left to him.
Everts was a trim man of forty, erect but not rigid. There was neither
friendliness nor hostility in his glance. His words were courteous as
Doc motioned toward the tray of breakfast. "I've already eaten, thank
you."
He accepted a chair. His voice was apologetic when he began. "This is a
personal matter which I perhaps have no right to bring up. But my wife
is greatly worried about this plague. I violate no confidence in telling
you there is considerable unease, even on Earth, according to messages I
have received. The ship physician believes Mrs. Everts may have the
plague, but isn't sure of the symptoms. I understand you are quite
expert."
Doc wondered about the physician. Apparently there was another man who
placed his patients above anything else, though he was probably
meticulous about obeying all actual rules. There was no law against
listening to a pariah, at least.
"When did she have Selznik's migraine?" he asked.
"About thirteen years ago. We went through it together, shortly after
having our metabolism switched during the food shortage of '88."
Doc felt carefully at the base of the Captain's skull; the swelling was
there. He asked a few questions, but there could be no doubt.
"Both of you must have it, Captain, though it won't mature for another
year. I'm sorry."
"There's no hope, then?"
Doc studied the man. But Everts wasn't the sort to dicker even for his
life. "Nothing that I've found, Captain. I have a clue, but I'm still
working on it. Perhaps if I could leave a few notes for your
physician--"
It was Everts' turn to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Dr. Feldman. I have
orders to burn out your cabin when you leave. But thank you." He got to
his feet and left as quietly and erectly as he had entered.
Doc tore up his notes bitterly. He paced his cabin slowly, reading out
the hours while his eyes lingered on the little bottle of cultures. At
times the fear grew in him, but he mastered it. There was half an hour
left when he began opening the little bottles and making his films.
He was still not finished when steps echoed down the hall, but he was
reasonably sure of his results. The bug could not grow in Earth-normal
tissue.
Three men entered the room. One of them, dressed in a spacesuit, held
out another suit to him. The other two began gathering up everything in
the cabin and stowing it neatly into a sack designed to protect freight
for a limited time in a vacuum.
Doc forced his hands to steadiness with foolish pride and began climbing
into the suit. He reached for the helmet, but the man shook his head,
pointing to the oxygen gauge. There would be exactly one hour's supply
of oxygen when he was thrown out and it still lacked five minutes of the
deadline.
They marched him down the hallway, to meet Everts coming toward them.
There were still three minutes left when they reached the airlock, with
its inner door already open. The spacesuited man climbed into it and
began strapping down so that the rush of air would not sweep him outward
when the other seal was released.
Doc had saved one bracky weed. Now he raised it to his lips, fumbling
for a light.
Everts stepped forward and flipped a lighter. Doc inhaled deeply. Fear
was thick in every muscle, and he needed the smoke desperately. Then he
caught himself.
"Better change your metabolism back to Earth-normal, Captain Everts," he
said, and his voice was so normal that he hardly recognized it.
Everts' eyes widened briefly. The man bowed faintly. "Thank you, Dr.
Feldman."
It was ridiculous, impossible, and yet there was a curious relief at the
formality of it. It was like something from a play, too unreal to affect
his life.
Everts nodded to the man holding the helmet. Doc dropped his bracky weed
and felt the helmet snap down. A hiss of oxygen reached him and the suit
ballooned out. There was no gravity; the two men handed him up easily to
the one in the airlock while the inner seal began to close.
There was still ten seconds to go, according to the big chronometer that
had been installed in the lock. The spaceman used it in tying the sack
of possessions firmly to Doc's suit.
A red light went on. The man caught Doc and held him against the outer
seal. The red light blinked. Four seconds ... three ... two....
There was a sudden heavy thudding sound, and the _Iroquois_ seemed to
jerk sideways slightly. The spaceman's face swung around in surprise.
The red light blinked and stayed on. Zero!
The outer seal snapped open and the spaceman heaved. Air exploded
outwards, and Doc went with it. He was alone in space, gliding away from
the ship, with oxygen hissing softly through the valve and ticking away
his life.
XI
Convert
Feldman fought for control of himself, forced himself to think, to hold
onto his sanity. It was sheer stupidity, since nothing could have been
more merciful than to lose this reality. But the will to be himself was
stronger than logic. And bit by bit, he forced the fear and horror away
from him until he could examine his situation.
He was spinning slowly, so that stars ahead of him seemed to crawl
across his view. The ship was retreating from him already hundreds of
yards away. Mars was a shrunken pill far away.
Then something blinked to one side. He turned his head to stare.
A little ship was less than three hundred yards away. He recognized it
as a life raft. Now his spin brought him around to face it, and he saw
it was parallelling his course. The ejection of the life raft must have
caused the thump he'd heard before he was cast adrift.
It meant someone was trying to save him. It meant _life_!
He flailed his arms and beat his legs together, senselessly trying to
force himself closer, while trying to guess who could have taken the
chance. No one he could think of could have booked passage on the
_Iroquois_. There wasn't that much free money in the villages.
Something flashed a hot blue, and the little ship leaped forward.
Whoever was handling it knew nothing about piloting. It picked up too
much speed at too great an angle.
Again blue spurts came, but this time matters were even worse. Then
there was a long wait before a third try was made. He estimated the
course. It would miss him by a good hundred feet, but it was probably
the best the amateur pilot could do. The ship drifted closer, but to one
side. It would soon pass him completely.
A spacesuited figure suddenly appeared in the tiny airlock, holding a
coil of rope. The rope shot out, well thrown. But it was too short. It
would pass within ten feet--and might as well have been ten miles for
all the good it would do him.
Every film he had seen on space seemed to form a mad jumble in his mind,
but he seized on the first idea he could remember. He inhaled deeply and
yanked the oxygen tank free. An automatic seal on the suit cut off the
connection. He aimed the hissing bottle, fumbling for the manual valve.
It almost worked. It kicked him toward the rope slightly, but most of
the energy was wasted in setting him into a wilder spin. He blinked,
trying to spot the rope. It was within five feet now.
Again he waited, until he seemed to be in position. This time he threw
the bottle away from it. It added spin to his vertical axis, but the
rope came into view within arm's reach.
He grasped it, just as his lungs seemed about to burst. He couldn't hold
on long enough to tie the rope....
His lungs gave up suddenly, collapsing and then sucking in greedily.
Clean air rushed in, letting his head clear. He'd forgotten that the
inflated suit held enough oxygen for several minutes.
His body struck the edge of the airlock and a hand jerked him inside.
The outer seal was slammed shut and locked, and there was a hiss of air
entering.
He threw back his helmet just as Chris Ryan jerked hers off.
Her voice shook almost hysterically. "Thank God. Dan, I almost gave up!"
"I liked the air out there better," he told her bitterly. "If you'll
open the lock again, I'll leave. Or am I supposed to believe this is
rescue and that you came along just to save me?"
"I came along to see you killed, as you know very well. Saving you
wasn't in my orders."
He grunted and reached for the handle that would release the outer lock.
"Better get back inside if you don't want to blow out with me."
"It's up to you, Dan," she told him, and there was all the sincerity in
the world in her blue eyes. "I'm on your side now."
He began counting on his fingers. "Let's see. The spare battery, the
delay in arresting me, the choice of Matthews--"
"It was all true." Anger began to grow in her eyes. "Dan Feldman, you
get inside this raft! If you don't care about me, you might consider the
people dying of the plague who need you!"
She'd played her trump, and it took the round. He followed her.
"All right," he said grudgingly. "Spill your story."
She held out a copy of a space radiogram, addressed to Mrs. D. E.
Everts, and signed by one of the best doctors on the Lobby Board of
Directors.
Regret confirm diagnosis. Topsecret. Repeat topsecret.
Martian fever incubates fourteen years, believed highly
fatal. No cure, research beginning immediately. Penalty
violation topsecret, death all concerned.
"Mrs. Everts rates a topsecret break?" Doc commented dryly. "Come off
it, Chris!"
"She's the daughter of Elmers of Space Lobby!" Chris answered. She
pointed to the message, underlining words with her finger. "_Fourteen
years._ You couldn't have caused it. _Highly fatal._ And people are
being told it's only a skin disease. _Research beginning._ But you've
already done most of the research. I can see that now. I can see a lot
of things."
"You've got me beat then," he said. "I can't see how such a reformed
young noblewoman calmly walked over and stole a life raft. I can't see
how your brilliant mind concocted this whole scheme in almost no time.
And to be honest, I can't even see why Medical Lobby decided to save me
at the last minute and sent you to do the job. You didn't have to spy
out knowledge from me. I've been trying all along to get it to your
Research division."
She sighed and dropped onto a little seat.
"I can't prove my motives. You'll just have to believe me. But it wasn't
hard to do what I've done. That shuttle pilot was found in a routine
check, stowed away on the life raft. I was with Captain Everts when he
was found, so I discovered how to get into the raft. And I heard his
whole confession. He wasn't the real pilot. He'd come from the villages
to save you. The whole scheme was his. I just used it, hoping I could
reach you."
As always her story had a convincing element she shouldn't have known.
The pilot's farewell, addressing him as Dr. Feldman, had been too low
for her to hear, but it was something that fitted her story. It was
probably a deliberate clue to give him hope, to assure him the villages
were still trying. It shook his confidence.
"And your motive--your real motive?" he insisted.
She swore at him, then began ripping off the spacesuit. She turned her
back, pulling a thin blouse down from her neck. He stared, then reached
out to touch the lump there.