Badge of Infamy - Lester del Rey (large ebook reader .txt) 📗

down the steps had a clear soprano voice, cultured and

commanding. The gray Medical uniform seemed molded to her shapely figure

and her red hair glistened in the lights of the street. Her snub nose

and determined mouth weren't the current fashion, but nobody stopped to

think of fashions when they saw her. She didn't have to be the daughter

of the president of Medical Lobby to rule.

 

It was Chris--Chris Feldman once, and now Chris Ryan again.

 

Feldman swung toward a cab. For a moment, his attitude was automatic and

assured, and the cab stopped before the driver noticed his clothes. He

picked up the bag Chris dropped and swung it onto the front seat. She

was fumbling in her change purse as he turned back to shut the door.

 

"Thank you, my good man," she said. She could be gracious, even to a

pariah, when his homage suited her. She dropped two quarters into his

hand, raising her eyes.

 

Recognition flowed into them, followed by icy shock. She yanked the cab

door shut and shouted something to the driver. The cab took off with a

rush that left Feldman in a backwash of slush and mud.

 

He glanced down at the coins in his hand. It was his lucky day, he

thought bitterly.

 

He moved across the street and away, not bothering about the squeal of

brakes and the honking horns. He looked back only once, toward the

glowing sign that topped the building. _Your health is our business!_

Then the great symbol of the health business faded behind him, and he

stumbled on, sucking incessantly at the cigarettes he rolled. One hand

clutched the bronze badge belonging to the dead man and his stolen

boots drove onward through the melting snow.

 

It was Christmas in the year 2100 on the protectorate of Earth.

II (Lobby)

 

Feldman had set his legs the problem of heading for the great spaceport

and escape from Earth, and he let them take him without further

guidance. His mind was wrapped up in a whirl of the past--his past and

that of the whole planet. Both pasts had in common the growth and sudden

ruin of idealism.

 

Idealism! Throughout history, some men had sought the ideal, and most

had called it freedom. Only fools expected absolute freedom, but wise

men dreamed up many systems of relative freedom, including democracy.

They had tried that in America, as the last fling of the dream. It had

been a good attempt, too.

 

The men who drew the Constitution had been pretty practical dreamers.

They came to their task after a bitter war and a worse period of wild

chaos, and they had learned where idealism stopped and idiocy began.

They set up a republic with all the elements of democracy that they

considered safe. It had worked well enough to make America the number

one power of the world. But the men who followed the framers of the new

plan were a different sort, without the knowledge of practical limits.

 

The privileges their ancestors had earned in blood and care became

automatic rights. Practical men tried to explain that there were no such

rights--that each generation had to pay for its rights with

responsibility. That kind of talk didn't get far. People wanted to hear

about rights, not about duties.

 

They took the phrase that all men were created equal and left out the

implied kicker that equality was in the sight of God and before the law.

They wanted an equality with the greatest men without giving up their

drive toward mediocrity, and they meant to have it. In a way, they got

it.

 

They got the vote extended to everyone. The man on subsidy or public

dole could vote to demand more. The man who read of nothing beyond sex

crimes could vote on the great political issues of the world. No ability

was needed for his vote. In fact, he was assured that voting alone was

enough to make him a fine and noble citizen. He loved that, if he

bothered to vote at all that year. He became a great man by listing his

unthought, hungry desire for someone to take care of him without

responsibility. So he went out and voted for the man who promised him

most, or who looked most like what his limited dreams felt to be a

father image or son image or hero image. He never bothered later to see

how the men he'd elected had handled the jobs he had given them.

 

Someone had to look, of course, and someone did. Organized special

interests stepped in where the mob had failed. Lobbies grew up. There

had always been pressure groups, but now they developed into a third arm

of the government.

 

The old Farm Lobby was unbeatable. The big farmers shaped the laws they

wanted. They convinced the little farmers it was for the good of all,

and they made the story stick well enough to swing the farm vote. They

made the laws when it came to food and crops.

 

The last of the great lobbies was Space, probably. It was an accident

that grew up so fast it never even knew it wasn't a real part of the

government. It developed during a period of chaos when another country

called Russia got the first hunk of metal above the atmosphere and when

the representatives who had been picked for everything but their grasp

of science and government went into panic over a myth of national

prestige.

 

The space effort was turned over to the aircraft industry, which had

never been able to manage itself successfully except under the stimulus

of war or a threat of war. The failing airplane industry became the

space combine overnight, and nobody kept track of how big it was, except

a few sharp operators.

 

They worked out a system of subcontracts that spread the profits so wide

that hardly a company of any size in the country wasn't getting a share.

Thus a lot of patriotic, noble voters got their pay from companies in

the lobby block and could be panicked by the lobby at the first mention

of recession.

 

So Space Lobby took over completely in its own field. It developed

enough pressure to get whatever appropriations it wanted, even over

Presidential veto. It created the only space experts, which meant that

the men placed in government agencies to regulate it came from its own

ranks.

 

The other lobbies learned a lot from Space.

 

There had been a medical lobby long before, but it had been a

conservative group, mostly concerned with protecting medical autonomy

and ethics. It also tried to prevent government control of treatment and

payment, feeling that it couldn't trust the people to know where to

stop. But its history was a long series of retreats.

 

It fought what it called socialized medicine. But the people wanted

their troubles handled free--which meant by government spending, since

that could be added to the national debt, and thus didn't seem to cost

anything. It lost, and eventually the government paid most medical

costs, with doctors working on a fixed fee. Then quantity of treatment

paid, rather than quality. Competence no longer mattered so much. The

Lobby lost, but didn't know it--because the lowered standards of

competence in the profession lowered the caliber of men running the

political aspects of that profession as exemplified by the Lobby.

 

It took a world-wide plague to turn the tide. The plague began in old

China; anything could start there, with more than a billion people

huddled in one area and a few madmen planning to conquer the world. It

might have been a laboratory mutation, but nobody could ever prove it.

 

It wiped out two billion people, depopulated Africa and most of Asia,

and wrecked Europe, leaving only America comparatively safe to take

over. An obscure scientist in one of the laboratories run by the Medical

Lobby found a cure before the first waves of the epidemic hit America.

Rutherford Ryan, then head of the Lobby, made sure that Medical Lobby

got all the credit.

 

By the time the world recovered, America ran it and the Medical Lobby

was untouchable. Ryan made a deal with Space Lobby, and the two

effectively ran the world. None of the smaller lobbies could buck them,

and neither could the government.

 

There was still a president and a congress, as there had been a Senate

under the Roman Caesars. But the two Lobbies ran themselves as they

chose. The real government had become a kind of oligarchy, as it always

did after too much false democracy ruined the ideals of real and

practical self-rule. A man belonged to his Lobby, just as a serf had

belonged to his feudal landlord.

 

It was a safe world now. Maybe progress had been halted at about the

level of 1980, but so long as the citizens didn't break the rules of

their lobbies, they had very little to worry about. For that, for

security and the right not to think, most people were willing to leave

well enough alone.

 

Some rules seemed harsh, of course, such as the law that all operations

had to be performed in Lobby hospitals. But that could be justified; it

was the only safe kind of surgery and the only way to make sure there

was no unsupervised experimentation, such as that which supposedly

caused the plague. The rule was now an absolute ethic of medicine. It

also made for better fees.

 

Feldman's father had stuck by the rule but had questioned it. Feldman

learned not to question in medical school. He scored second in Medical

Ethics only to Christina Ryan.

 

He had never figured why she singled him out for her attentions, but he

gloried in both those attentions and the results. He became

automatically a rising young man, the favorite of the daughter of the

Lobby president. He went through internship without a sign of trouble.

Chris humored him in his desire to spend three years of practice in a

poor section loaded with disease, and her father approved; such selfless

dedication was the perfect image projection for a future son-in-law. In

return, he agreed to follow that period by becoming an administrator. A

doctor's doctor, as they put it.

 

They were married in April and his office was ready in May, complete

with a staff of eighty. The publicity releases had gone out, and the

Public Relations Lobby that handled news and education was paid to begin

the greatest build-up any young genius ever had.

 

They celebrated that, with a little party of some four hundred people

and reporters at Ryan's lodge in Canada. It was to be a gala weekend.

 

It was then that Baxter shot himself.

 

Baxter had been Feldman's closest friend in the Lobby. He'd come along

to handle press relations and had gotten romantic about the countryside,

never having been out of a city before. He hired a guide and went

hunting, eighty miles beyond the last outpost of civilization. Somehow,

he got his hand on a gun, though only guides were supposed to touch

them, managed to overcome its safety devices, and then pulled the

trigger with the gun pointed the wrong way.

 

Chris, Feldman and Harnett from Public Relations had accompanied him on

the trip. They were sitting in a nearby car while Feldman enjoyed the

scenery, Chris made further plans, and Harnett gathered material. There

was also a photographer and writer, but they hadn't been introduced by

name.

 

Feldman reached Baxter first. The man was moaning and scared, and he was

bleeding profusely. Only a miracle had saved him from instant death. The

bullet had struck a rib, been deflected and robbed of some of its

energy, and had barely reached the heart. But it had pierced the

pericardium, as best Feldman could guess, and it could be fatal at any

moment.

 

He'd reached for a probe without thinking. Chris knocked his hand aside.

 

She was right, of course. He couldn't operate outside a hospital. But

they had no phone in the lodge where the guide lived and no way to

summon an ambulance. They'd have to drive Baxter back in the car, which

would almost certainly result in his death.

 

When Feldman seemed uncertain, Harnett had given his warning