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

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.

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