Badge of Infamy by Lester del Rey (inspiring books for teens TXT) 📖

the base of the brain before the larger

lump could form.

 

A specimen from one of the black specks was even more interesting. The

filaments were there, but some were changed or changing into tiny, round

cells, also with the triple dark spots of nuclei. Those must be the

final form that was released to infect others. Probably at first these

multiplied directly in epithelial tissue, so that there was a rapid

contagion of infection. Eventually, they must form the filaments that

invaded the nerves and caused the brief bodily reaction that was

Selznik's migraine. Then the body adapted to them and they began to

incubate slowly, developing into the large cells he had first seen. When

"ripe", the big cells broke apart into millions of the tiny round ones

that went back to the nerve endings, causing the black spots and killing

the host.

 

He knew his enemy now, at least.

 

He reached for the controls, increasing the magnification. He would lose

resolution, but he might find something more at the extreme limits of

the mike.

 

Something wet and cold gushed into his face. He jerked back, trying to

wipe it off, but it was already evaporating, and there was a thick,

acrid odor in the cab. He grabbed for his aspirator, then tried to reach

the airlock. But paralysis was already spreading through him, and he

toppled to the floor before he could escape.

 

When he came to, it was morning outside, and Chris was waiting inside

the cab with two big Lobby policemen. A hypo in her hand must have been

what revived him.

 

She touched the electron microscope with something like affection. "The

Lobby technicians did a good job on this, don't you think, Dan? I warned

you, but you wouldn't listen. And now we've even got your own taped

words to prove you were doing forbidden research. Fool!"

 

She shook her head pityingly as the tractor began moving with two others

toward Southport.

 

"You and your phony diseases. A little skin disorder, Selznik's

migraine, and a few cases of psychosis to make a new disease. Do you

think Medical Lobby can't check on such simple things? Or didn't you

expect us to hear of your open talk of revolt and realize you were

planning to create some new germ to wipe out the Earth forces. Maybe

those runners of yours were real, mass murderer!"

 

She drew out another hypo and shoved the needle into his arm.

Necrosynth--enough to keep him unconscious for twenty-four hours. He

started to curse her, but the drug acted before he could complete the

thought.

IX (Judgment)

 

Doc woke to see sunlight shining through a heavily barred window that

must be in the official Southport jail. He waited a few minutes for his

head to clear and then sat up; necrosynth left no hangover, at least.

 

The sound of steps outside was followed by the squeak of a key in the

lock. "Fifteen minutes, Judge Wilson," a voice said.

 

"Thank you, officer." Wilson came into the cell, carrying a tray of

breakfast and a copy of the Northport _Gazette_. He began unloading

bracky weeds from his pocket while Doc attacked the breakfast.

 

"They tossed the book at you, Doc," he said. "You haven't got a chance,

and there's nothing the villages can do. Trial's set for tomorrow at

Northport, and it's in closed session. We can't get you off this time."

 

Doc nodded. "Thanks for coming, even if there's nothing you can do. I've

been living on borrowed time for a year, anyhow, so I have no right to

kick. But who's 'we'?"

 

"The villages. I've been part of their organization for years." The old

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!"