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

in a low

but vehement voice. "You touch him, Dan, and I'll spread it in every one

of our media. I'll have to. It's the only way to retain public

confidence. There'd be a leak, with all the guides and others here, and

we can't afford that. I like you--you have color. But touch that wound

and I'll crucify you."

 

Chris added her own threats. She'd spent years making him the outlet for

all her ambitions, denied because women were still only second-rate

members of Medical Lobby. She couldn't let it go now. And she was

probably genuinely shocked.

 

Baxter groaned again and started to bleed more profusely.

 

There wasn't much equipment. Feldman operated with a pocketknife

sterilized in a bottle of expensive Scotch and only anodyne tablets in

place of anesthesia. He got the bullet out and sewed up the wound with a

bit of surgical thread he'd been using to tie up a torn good-luck

emblem. The photographer and writer recorded the whole thing. Chris

swore harshly and beat her fists against the bole of a tree. But Baxter

lived. He recovered completely, and was shocked at the heinous thing

that had been done to him.

 

They crucified Feldman.

III (Spaceman)

 

Most crewmen lived rough, ugly lives--and usually, short ones.

Passengers and officers on the big tubs were given the equivalent of

gravity in spinning compartments, but the crews rode "free". The lucky

crewmen lived through their accidents, got space-stomach now and then,

and recovered. Nobody cared about the others.

 

Feldman's ticket was work-stamped for the _Navaho_, and nobody

questioned his identity. He suffered through the agony of acceleration

on the shuttle up to the orbital station, then was sick as acceleration

stopped. But he was able to control himself enough to follow other

crewmen down a hall of the station toward the _Navaho_. The big ships

never touched a planet, always docking at the stations.

 

A checker met the crew and reached for their badges. He barely glanced

at them, punched a mark for each on his checkoff sheet, and handed them

back. "Deckmen forward, tubemen to the rear," he ordered. "_Navaho_

blasts in fifteen minutes. Hey, you! You're tubes."

 

Feldman grunted. He should have expected it. Tubemen had the lowest lot

of all the crew. Between the killing work, the heat of the tubes, and

occasional doses of radiation, their lives weren't worth the metal value

of their tickets.

 

He began pulling himself clumsily along a shaft, dodging freight the

loaders were tossing from hand to hand. A bag hit his head, drawing

blood, and another caught him in the groin.

 

"Watch it, bo," a loader yelled at him. "You dent that bag and they'll

brig you. Cantcha see it's got a special courtesy stripe?"

 

It had a brilliant green stripe, he saw. It also had a name, printed in

block letters that shouted their identity before he could read the

words. _Dr. Christina Ryan, Southport, Mars._

 

And he'd had to choose this time to leave Earth!

 

Suddenly he was glad he was assigned to the tubes. It was the one place

on the ship where he'd be least likely to run into her. As a doctor and

a courtesy passenger, she'd have complete run of the ship, but she'd

hardly bother with the dangerous and unpleasant tube section.

 

He dragged his way back, beginning to sweat with the effort. The

_Navaho_ was an old ship. A lot of the handholds were missing, and he

had to throw himself along by erratic leaps. He was gaining proficiency,

but not enough to handle himself if the ship blasted off. Time was

growing short when he reached the aft bunkroom where the other tubemen

were waiting.

 

"Ben," one husky introduced himself. "Tube chief. Know how to work

this?"

 

Feldman could see that they were assembling a small still. He'd heard of

the phenomenal quantities of beer spacemen drank, and now he realized

what really happened to it. Hard liquor was supposed to be forbidden,

but they made their own. "I can work it," he decided. "I'm--uh--Dan."

 

"Okay, Dan." Ben glanced at the clock. "Hit the sacks, boys."

 

By the time Feldman could settle into the sacklike hammock, the

_Navaho_ began to shake faintly, and weight piled up. It was mild

compared to that on the shuttle, since the big ships couldn't take high

acceleration. Space had been conquered for more than a century, but the

ships were still flimsy tubs that took months to reach Mars, using

immense amounts of fuel. Only the valuable plant hormones from Mars made

commerce possible at the ridiculously high freight rate.

 

Three hours later he began to find out why spacemen didn't seem to fear

dying or turning pariah. The tube quarters had grown insufferably hot

during the long blast, but the main tube-room was blistering as Ben led

the men into it. The chief handed out spacesuits and motioned for Dan.

 

"Greenhorn, aincha? Okay, I'll take you with me. We go out in the tubes

and pull the lining. I pry up the stuff, you carry it back here and

stack it."

 

They sealed off the tube-room, pumped out the air, and went into the

steaming, mildly radioactive tubes, just big enough for a man on hands

and knees. Beyond the tube mouth was empty space, waiting for the man

who slipped. Ben began ripping out the eroded blocks with a special

tool. Feldman carried them back and stacked them along with others. A

plasma furnace melted them down into new blocks. The work grew

progressively worse as the distance to the tube-room increased. The tube

mouth yawned closer and closer. There were no handholds there--only the

friction of a man's body in the tube.

 

Life settled into a dull routine of labor, sleep, and the brief relief

of the crude white mule from the still.

 

They were six weeks out and almost finished with the tube cleaning when

Number Two tube blew. Bits of the remaining radioactive fuel must have

collected slowly until they reached blow-point. Feldman in Number One

would have gone sailing out into space, but Ben reacted at once. As the

ship leaped slightly, Feldman brought up sharply against the chief's

braced body. For a second their fate hung in the balance. Then it was

over, and Ben shoved him back, grinning faintly.

 

He jerked his thumb and touched helmets briefly. "There they go, Dan."

 

The two men who had been working in Number Two were charred lumps,

drifting out into space.

 

No further comment was made on it, except that they'd have to work

harder from now on, since they were shorthanded.

 

That rest period Feldman came down with a mild attack of

space-stomach--which meant no more drinking for him--and was off work

for a day. Then the pace picked up. The tubes were cleared and they

began laying the new lining for the landing blasts. There was no time

for thought after that. Mars' orbital station lay close when the work

was finished.

 

Ben slapped Feldman on the back. "Ya ain't bad for a greenie, Dan. We

all get six-day passes on Mars. Hit the sack now so you won't waste time

sleeping then. We'll hear it when the ship berths."

 

Feldman didn't hear it, but the others did. He felt Ben shaking his

shoulder, trying to drag him out of the sack. "Grab your junk, Dan."

 

Ben picked up Feldman's nearly empty bag and tossed it toward him,

before his eyes were fully open. He grabbed for it and missed. He

grabbed again, with Ben's laughter in his ears. The bag hit the wall and

fell open, spilling its contents.

 

Feldman began gathering it up, but the chief was no longer laughing. A

big hand grabbed up the space ticket suddenly, and there was no

friendliness now on Ben's face.

 

"Art Billing's card!" Ben told the other tubemen. "Five trips I made

with Art. He was saving his money, going to buy a farm on Mars. Five

trips and one more to go before he had enough. Now you show up with his

ticket!"

 

The tubemen moved forward toward Feldman. There was no indecision. To

them, apparently, trial had been held and sentence passed.

 

"Wait a minute," Feldman began. "Billings died of--"

 

A fist snaked past his raised hand and connected with his jaw. He

bounced off a wall. A wrench sailed toward him, glanced off his arm, and

ripped at his muscles. Another heavy fist struck.

 

Abruptly, Ben's voice cut through their yells. "Hold it!" He shoved

through the group, tossing men backwards. "Stow it! We can take care of

him later. Right now, this is captain's business. You fools want to lose

your leave?" He indicated two of the others. "You two bring him

along--and keep him quiet!"

 

The two grabbed Feldman's arms and dragged him along as the chief began

pulling his way forward through the tubes up towards the control section

of the ship. Feldman took a quick glance at their faces and made no

effort to resist; they obviously would have enjoyed any chance to subdue

him.

 

They were stopped twice by minor officers, then sent on. They finally

found the captain near the exit lock, apparently assisting the

passengers to leave. Most of them went on into the shuttle, but Chris

Ryan remained behind as the captain listened to Ben's report and

inspected the false ticket.

 

Finally the captain turned to Feldman. "You. What's your name?"

 

Chris' eyes were squarely on Feldman, cold and furious. "He _was_ Doctor

Daniel Feldman, Captain Marker," she stated.

 

Feldman stood paralyzed. He'd been unwilling to face Chris. He wanted to

avoid all the past. But the idea that she would denounce him had never

entered his head. There was no Medical rule involved. She knew that as a

pariah he was forbidden to board a passenger ship, of course. But she'd

been his wife once!

 

Marker bowed slightly to her. "Thank you, Dr. Ryan. I should take this

criminal back to Earth in chains, I suppose. But he's hardly worth the

freightage. You men. Want to take him down to Mars and ground him

there?"

 

Ben grinned and touched his forelock. "Thank you, sir. We'd enjoy that."

 

"Good. His pay reverts to the ship's fund. That's all, men."

 

Feldman started to protest, but a fist lashed savagely against his

mouth.

 

He made no other protests as they dragged him into the crew shuttle that

took off for Southport. He avoided their eyes and sat hunched over. It

was Ben who finally broke the silence.

 

"What happened to Art's money? He had a pile on him."

 

"Go to hell!"

 

"Give, I said!" Ben twisted his arm back toward his shoulder, applying

increasing pressure.

 

"A doctor took it for his fee when Billings died of space-stomach. Damn

you, I couldn't help him!"

 

Ben looked at the others. "Med Lobby fee, eh? All the market will take.

Umm. It could be, maybe." He shrugged. "Okay, reasonable doubt. We

won't kill you, bo. Not quite, we won't."

 

The shuttle landed and Ben handed out the little helmets and aspirators

that made life possible in Mars' thin air. Outside, the tubemen took

turns holding Feldman and beating him while the passengers disembarked

from their shuttle. As he slumped into unconsciousness, he had a picture

of Chris Ryan's frozen face as she moved steadily toward the port

station.

IV (Martian)

It was night when Feldman came to, and the temperature was dropping

rapidly. He struggled to sit up through a fog of pain. Somewhere in his

bag, he should