Produced by Susan Skinner, Greg Weeks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from an Ace Books paperback, 1973. Extensiveresearch did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on thispublication was renewed.
BADGE OF INFAMY
LESTER DEL REY
EARTHMEN BECOMING MARTIANS]
The computer seemed to work as it should. The speed was within acceptable limits. He gave up trying to see the ground and was forced to trust the machinery designed for amateur pilots. The flare bloomed, and he yanked down on the little lever.
It could have been worse. They hit the ground, bounced twice, and turned over. The ship was a mess when Feldman freed himself from the elastic straps of the seat. Chris had shrieked as they hit, but she was unbuckling herself now.
He threw her her spacesuit and one of the emergency bottles of oxygen from the rack. "Hurry up with that. We've sprung a leak and the pressure's dropping."
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Turn this book over for a second complete novel.
[Transcriber's Note:The second novel is not present in this etext.]
* * * * *
BADGE OF INFAMY
By LESTER DEL REY
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ace booksA Division of Charter Communications Inc.1120 Avenue of the AmericasNew York, N.Y. 10036
BADGE OF INFAMY
Copyright (C) 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.Copyright (C) 1957 by Renown Publications, Inc.
A shorter and earlier version of this story appeared in _SatelliteScience Fiction_ for June, 1957.
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_First Ace printing: January, 1973_
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THE SKY IS FALLINGCopyright (C) 1954, 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.
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Printed in U.S.A.
I
Pariah
The air of the city's cheapest flophouse was thick with the smells ofharsh antiseptic and unwashed bodies. The early Christmas snowstorm haddriven in every bum who could steal or beg the price of admission, andthe long rows of cots were filled with fully clothed figures. Those whocould afford the extra dime were huddled under thin, grimy blankets.
The pariah who had been Dr. Daniel Feldman enjoyed no such luxury. Hetossed fitfully on a bare cot, bringing his face into the dim light. Ithad been a handsome face, but now the black stubble of beard lay overgaunt features and sunken cheeks. He looked ten years older than hisscant thirty-two, and there were the beginnings of a snarl at thecorners of his mouth. Clothes that had once been expensive were wrinkledand covered with grime that no amount of cleaning could remove. Histall, thin body was awkwardly curled up in a vain effort to conserveheat and one of his hands instinctively clutched at his tiny bag ofpossessions.
He stirred again, and suddenly jerked upright with a protest alreadyforming on his lips. The ugly surroundings registered on his eyes, andhe stared suspiciously at the other cots. But there was no sign thatanyone had been trying to rob him of his bindle or the precious bag ofcheap tobacco.
He started to relax back onto the couch when a sound caught hisattention, even over the snoring of the others. It was a low wail, thesound of a man who can no longer control himself.
Feldman swung to the cot on his left as the moan hacked off. The manthere was well fed and clean-shaven, but his face was gray withsickness. He was writhing and clutching his stomach, arching his backagainst the misery inside him.
"Space-stomach?" Feldman diagnosed.
He had no need of the weak answering nod. He'd treated such casesseveral times in the past. The disease was usually caused by the absenceof gravity out in space, but it could be brought on later from abuse ofthe 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 tobe tearing the intestines out of him, and the paroxysms were comingfaster. His eyes darted to Feldman's tobacco sack and there was animalappeal in them.
Feldman hesitated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held thecigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smokedthe remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungsand sicken his empty stomach. Then he shrugged and threaded his waythrough the narrow aisles toward the attendant.
"Better get a doctor," he said bitterly, when the young punk looked upat 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 doctorsevery time some wino wants to throw up. Forget it and get back where youbelong, bo."
"You'll have a corpse on your hands in an hour," Feldman insisted. "Iknow space-stomach, damn it."
The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. "Go treat yourself if youwanta 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 hecaught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally facedthe kid again. "I'm not fooling. And I _was_ a doctor," he stated. "Myname is Daniel Feldman."
The attendant nodded absently, until the words finally penetrated. Helooked up, studied Feldman with surprised curiosity and growingcontempt, and reached for the phone. "Gimme Medical Directory," hemuttered.
Feldman felt the kid's eyes on his back as he stumbled through theaisles to his cot again. He slumped down, rolling another cigarette inhands that shook. The sick man was approaching delirium now, and themoans were mixed with weak whining sounds of fear. Other men had wakenedand were watching, but nobody made a move to help.
The retching and writhing of the sick man had begun to weaken, but itwas still not too late to save him. Hot water and skillful massage couldinterrupt the paroxysms. In fifteen minutes, Feldman could have stoppedthe 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 windup in the gas chamber! There'd be no mercy for his second offenseagainst Lobby laws. If the spaceman lived, Feldman might get off with aflogging--that was standard punishment for a pariah who stepped out ofline. But with his luck, there would be a heart arrest and another juicystory for the papers.
Idealism! The Medical Lobby made a lot out of the word. But it wasn'tfor him. A pariah had no business thinking of others.
As Feldman sat there staring, the spaceman grew quieter. Sometimes, evenat this stage, massage could help. It was harder without liberalsupplies of hot water, but the massage was the really importanttreatment. It was the trembling of Feldman's hands that stopped him. Heno longer had the strength or the certainty to make the massageeffective.
He was glaring at his hands in self-disgust when the legal doctorarrived. The man was old and tired. Probably he had been anotheridealist who had wound up defeated, content to leave things up to theestablished procedures of the Medical Lobby. He looked it as he bentover the dying man.
The doctor turned back at last to the attendant. "Too late. The best Ican do is ease his pain. The call should have been made half an hourearlier."
He had obviously never handled space-stomach before. He administered ahypo that probably held narconal. Feldman watched, his guts tighteningsympathetically for the shock that would be to the sick man. But atleast it would shorten his sufferings. The final seizure lasted only aminute or so.
"Hopeless," the doctor said. His eyes were clouded for a moment, andthen he shrugged. "Well, I'll make ou
t a death certificate. Anyone hereknow his name?"
His eyes swung about the cots until they came to rest on Feldman. Hefrowned, and a twisted smile curved his lips.
"Feldman, isn't it? You still look something like your pictures. Do youknow the deceased?"
Feldman shook his head bitterly. "No. I don't know his name. I don'teven 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 andnodded to the attendant. "Well, go through his things. If he still has aspace ticket, I can get his name from that."
The kid began pawing through the bag that had fallen from the cot. Hedragged out a pair of shoes, half a bottle of cheap rum, a wallet and abronze space ticket. He wasn't quick enough with the wallet, and thedoctor took it from him.
"Medical Lobby authorization. If he has any money, it covers my fee andthe rest goes to his own Lobby." There were several bills, all of largedenominations. He turned the ticket over and began filling in the deathcertificate. "Arthur Billings. Space Lobby. Crewman. Cause of death,idiopathic gastroenteritis _and_ delirium tremens."
There had been no evidence of delirium tremens, but apparently thedoctor felt he had scored a point. He tossed the space ticket toward theshoes, closed his bag, and prepared to leave.
"Hey, doc!" The attendant's voice was indignant. "Hey, what about myreporting fee?"
The doctor stopped. He glanced at the kid, then toward Feldman, his facea mixture of speculation and dislike. He took a dollar bill from thewallet. "That's right," he admitted. "The fee for reporting a solventcase. 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'scot. "There's your fee, pariah." He left, forcing the protestingattendant to precede him.
Feldman reached for the bill. It was blood money for letting a mandie--but it meant cigarettes and food--or shelter for another night, ifhe could get a mission meal. He no longer could afford pride. Grimly, hepocketed the bill, staring at the face of the dead man. It looked backsightlessly, now showing a faint speckling of tiny dots. They caughtFeldman's eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on theskin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have beencyanosis....
He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn'tworry about anything now but getting away from here before the attendantmade trouble. His eyes rested on the shoes of the dead man--sturdy bootsthat would last for another year. They could do the corpse no good;someone else would steal them if he didn't. But he hesitated, cursinghimself.
The right boot fitted better than he could have expected, but somethinggot in the way as he tried to put the left one on. His fingers found thebronze ticket. He turned it over, considering it. He wasn't ready tofraud 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 thesidewalk was soggy underfoot. There was going to be no work shovelingsnow, he realized. This would melt before the day was over. Feldmanhunched the suitcoat up, shivering as the cold bit into him. The bootsfelt good, though; if he'd had socks, they would have been completelycomfortable.
He passed a cheap restaurant, and the smell of the synthetics set hisstomach churning. It had been two days since his last real meal, and thedollar burned in his pocket. But he had to wait. There was a fairchance this early that he could scavenge something edible.
He shuffled on. After a while, the cold bothered him less, and he passedthrough 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 snappedhim back to awareness of where he'd traveled. His undirected feet hadled him much too far uptown, following old habits. This was the MedicalLobby building, where he'd spent more than enough time, including threeweeks in custody before they stripped him of all rank and status.
His eyes wandered to the ornate entrance where he'd first emerged as apariah. 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 hisface and slunk off, knowing himself for what the world had branded him.
He stood there now, staring at the smug young medical politicians andthe tired old general practitioners filing in and out. One of the latterhalted, 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 watchinghim, and he knew it was time to move on. Sooner or later, someone wouldrecognize him here.
He clutched the quarter and turned to look for a coffee shop that soldthe synthetics to which his metabolism had been switched. No shop wouldserve 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 glancedback.
"Taxi! Taxi!"
The girl rushing down the steps had a clear soprano voice, cultured andcommanding. The gray Medical uniform seemed molded to her shapely figureand her red hair glistened in the lights of the street. Her snub noseand determined mouth weren't the current fashion, but nobody stopped tothink of fashions when they saw her. She didn't have to be the daughterof 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 andassured, and the cab stopped before the driver noticed his clothes. Hepicked up the bag Chris dropped and swung it onto the front seat. Shewas 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 apariah, when his homage suited her. She dropped two quarters into hishand, raising her eyes.
Recognition flowed into them, followed by icy shock. She yanked the cabdoor shut and shouted something to the driver. The cab took off with arush that left Feldman in a backwash of slush and mud.
He glanced down at the coins in his hand. It was his lucky day, hethought bitterly.
He moved across the street and away, not bothering about the squeal ofbrakes and the honking horns. He looked back only once, toward theglowing sign that topped the building. _Your health is our business!_Then the great symbol of the health business faded behind him, and hestumbled on, sucking incessantly at the cigarettes he rolled. One handclutched the bronze badge belonging to the dead man and his stolenboots drove onward through the melting snow.
It was Christmas in the year 2100 on the protectorate of Earth.