Badge of Infamy by Lester del Rey (easy novels to read txt) 📕

This etext was produced from an Ace Books paperback, 1973. Extensive

research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this

publication was renewed.

The air of the city's cheapest flophouse was thick with the smells of

harsh antiseptic and unwashed bodies. The early Christmas snowstorm had

driven in every bum who could steal or beg the price of admission, and

the long rows of cots were filled with fully clothed figures. Those who

could afford the extra dime were huddled under thin, grimy blankets.

The pariah who had been Dr. Daniel Feldman enjoyed no such luxury. He

tossed fitfully on a bare cot, bringing his face into the dim light. It

had been a handsome face, but now the black stubble of beard lay over

gaunt features and sunken cheeks. He looked ten years older than his

scant thirty-two, and there were the beginnings of a snarl at the

corners of his mouth. Clothes that had once been expensive were wrinkled

and covered with grime that no amount of cleaning could remove. His

tall, thin body was awkwardly curled up in a vain effort to conserve

heat and one of his hands instinctively clutched at his tiny bag of

possessions.

He stirred again, and suddenly jerked upright with a protest already

forming on his lips. The ugly surroundings registered on his eyes, and

he stared suspiciously at the other cots. But there was no sign that

anyone had been trying to rob him of his bindle or the precious bag of

cheap tobacco.

He started to relax back onto the couch when a sound caught his

attention, even over the snoring of the others. It was a low wail, the

sound of a man who can no longer control himself.

Feldman swung to the cot on his left as the moan hacked off. The man

there was well fed and clean-shaven, but his face was gray with

sickness. He was writhing and clutching his stomach, arching his back

against the misery inside him.

"Space-stomach?" Feldman diagnosed.

He had no need of the weak answering nod. He'd treated such cases

several times in the past. The disease was usually caused by the absence

of gravity out in space, but it could be brought on later from abuse of

the weakened internal organs, such as the intake of too much bad liquor.

The man must have been frequenting the wrong space-front bars.

Now he was obviously dying. Violent peristaltic contractions seemed to

be tearing the intestines out of him, and the paroxysms were coming

faster. His eyes darted to Feldman's tobacco sack and there was animal

appeal in them.

Feldman hesitated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held the

cigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smoked

the remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungs

and sicken his empty stomach. Then he shrugged and threaded his way

through the narrow aisles toward the attendant.

"Better get a doctor," he said bitterly, when the young punk looked up

at him. "You've got a man dying of space-stomach on 214."

The sneer on the kid's face deepened. "Yeah? We don't pay for doctors

every time some wino wants to throw up. Forget it and get back where you

belong, bo."

"You'll have a corpse on your hands in an hour," Feldman insisted. "I

know space-stomach, damn it."

The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. "Go treat yourself if you

wanta play doctor. Go on, scram--before I toss you out in the snow!"

One of Feldman's white-knuckled hands reached for the attendant. Then he

caught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally faced

the kid again. "I'm not fooling. And I _was_ a doctor," he stated. "My

name is Daniel Feldman."

The attendant nodded absently, until the words finally penetrated. He

looked up, studied Feldman with surprised curiosity and growing

contempt, and reached for the phone. "Gimme Medical Directory," he

muttered.

Feldman felt the kid's eyes on his back as he stumbled through the

aisles to his cot again. He slumped down, rolling another cigarette in

hands that shook. The sick man was approaching delirium now, and the

moans were mixed with weak whining sounds of fear. Other men had wakened

and were watching, but nobody made a move to help.

The retching and writhing of the sick man had begun to weaken, but it

was still not too late to save him. Hot water and skillful massage could

interrupt the paroxysms. In fifteen minutes, Feldman could have stopped

the attack completely.

He found his feet on the floor and his hands already reaching out.

Savagely he pulled himself back. Sure, he could save the man--and wind

up in the gas chamber! There'd be no mercy for his second offense

against Lobby laws. If the spaceman lived, Feldman might get off with a

flogging--that was standard punishment for a pariah who stepped out of

line. But with his luck, there would be a heart arrest and another juicy

story for the papers.

Idealism! The Medical Lobby made a lot out of the word. But it wasn't

for him. A pariah had no business thinking of others.

As Feldman sat there staring, the spaceman grew quieter. Sometimes, even

at this stage, massage could help. It was harder without liberal

supplies of hot water, but the massage was the really important

treatment. It was the trembling of Feldman's hands that stopped him. He

no longer had the strength or the certainty to make the massage

effective.

He was glaring at his hands in self-disgust when the legal doctor

arrived. The man was old and tired. Probably he had been another

idealist who had wound up defeated, content to leave things up to the

established procedures of the Medical Lobby. He looked it as he bent

over the dying man.

The doctor turned back at last to the attendant. "Too late. The best I

can do is ease his pain. The call should have been made half an hour

earlier."

He had obviously never handled space-stomach before. He administered a

hypo that probably held narconal. Feldman watched, his guts tightening

sympathetically for the shock that would be to the sick man. But at

least it would shorten his sufferings. The final seizure lasted only a

minute or so.

"Hopeless," the doctor said. His eyes were clouded for a moment, and

then he shrugged. "Well, I'll make out a death certificate. Anyone here

know his name?"

His eyes swung about the cots until they came to rest on Feldman. He

frowned, and a twisted smile curved his lips.

"Feldman, isn't it? You still look something like your pictures. Do you

know the deceased?"

Feldman shook his head bitterly. "No. I don't know his name. I don't

even know why he wasn't cyanotic at the end, _if_ it was space-stomach.

Do you, doctor?"

The old man threw a startled glance at the corpse. Then he shrugged and

nodded to the attendant. "Well, go through his things. If he still has a

space ticket, I can get his name from that."

The kid began pawing through the bag that had fallen from the cot. He

dragged out a pair of shoes, half a bottle of cheap rum, a wallet and a

bronze space ticket. He wasn't quick enough with the wallet, and the

doctor took it from him.

"Medical Lobby authorization. If he has any money, it covers my fee and

the rest goes to his own Lobby." There were several bills, all of large

denominations. He turned the ticket over and began filling in the death

certificate. "Arthur Billings. Space Lobby. Crewman. Cause of death,

idiopathic gastroenteritis _and_ delirium tremens."

There had been no evidence of delirium tremens, but apparently the

doctor felt he had scored a point. He tossed the space ticket toward the

shoes, closed his bag, and prepared to leave.

"Hey, doc!" The attendant's voice was indignant. "Hey, what about my

reporting fee?"

The doctor stopped. He glanced at the kid, then toward Feldman, his face

a mixture of speculation and dislike. He took a dollar bill from the

wallet. "That's right," he admitted. "The fee for reporting a solvent

case. Medical Lobby rules apply--even to a man who breaks them."

The kid's hand was out, but the doctor dropped the dollar onto Feldman's

cot. "There's your fee, pariah." He left, forcing the protesting

attendant to precede him.

Feldman reached for the bill. It was blood money for letting a man

die--but it meant cigarettes and food--or shelter for another night, if

he could get a mission meal. He no longer could afford pride. Grimly, he

pocketed the bill, staring at the face of the dead man. It looked back

sightlessly, now showing a faint speckling of tiny dots. They caught

Feldman's eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on the

skin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have been

cyanosis....

He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn't

worry about anything now but getting away from here before the attendant

made trouble. His eyes rested on the shoes of the dead man--sturdy boots

that would last for another year. They could do the corpse no good;

someone else would steal them if he didn't. But he hesitated, cursing

himself.

The right boot fitted better than he could have expected, but something

got in the way as he tried to put the left one on. His fingers found the

bronze ticket. He turned it over, considering it. He wasn't ready to

fraud his identity for what he'd heard of life on the spaceships, yet.

But he shoved it into his pocket and finished lacing the boots.

Outside, the snow was still falling, but it had turned to slush, and the

sidewalk was soggy underfoot. There was going to be no work shoveling

snow, he realized. This would melt before the day was over. Feldman

hunched the suitcoat up, shivering as the cold bit into him. The boots

felt good, though; if he'd had socks, they would have been completely

comfortable.

He passed a cheap restaurant, and the smell of the synthetics set his

stomach churning. It had been two days since his last real meal, and the

dollar burned in his pocket. But he had to wait. There was a fair

chance this early that he could scavenge something edible.

He shuffled on. After a while, the cold bothered him less, and he passed

through the hunger spell. He rolled another smoke and sucked at it,

hardly thinking. It was better that way.

It was much later when the big caduceus set into the sidewalk snapped

him back to awareness of where he'd traveled. His undirected feet had

led him much too far uptown, following old habits. This was the Medical

Lobby building, where he'd spent more than enough time, including three

weeks in custody before they stripped him of all rank and status.

His eyes wandered to the ornate entrance where he'd first emerged as a

pariah. He'd meant to walk down those steps as if he were still a man.

But each step had drained his resolution, until he'd finally covered his

face and slunk off, knowing himself for what the world had branded him.

He stood there now, staring at the smug young medical politicians and

the tired old general practitioners filing in and out. One of the latter

halted, fumbled in his pocket and drew out a quarter.

"Merry Christmas!" he said dully.

Feldman fingered the coin. Then he saw a gray Medical policeman watching

him, and he knew it was time to move on. Sooner or later, someone would

recognize him here.

He clutched the quarter and turned to look for a coffee shop that sold

the synthetics to which his metabolism had been switched. No shop would

serve him here, but he could buy coffee and a piece of cake to take out.

A flurry of motion registered from the corner of his eye, and he glanced

back.

"Taxi! Taxi!"

The girl rushing