A Scatter of Stardust (9 page)

“You can’t fool the subconscious,” he said grimly. “You can fool the conscious but that’s all. He,” a jerk of the thumb told me who he meant, “knows that Ginney is dead. He tried to deny that knowledge and we, God forgive us, helped him do it. But deep down inside he knew that she had gone for good.” He saw my expression and remembered that I was no psychologist.

“The professor is an intelligent man,” he explained. “To remain intelligent his mind had to be efficient, and how efficient is a mind clouded with delusion? You relieved him of the need of maintaining that delusion and so he could finish his work. But once you had done that, he had time to be objective. He could see you as others saw him and somehow he must have realized the futility of trying to resurrect the past.” He sighed. “In other words he was on the road to a cure. But there was something else. They never found out who killed his daughter, and he wanted revenge. They never found out, so you said, who injured you, and you are his friend. He wants to be with his daughter and the only way he can do that is to die. But he can’t commit conscious suicide. Conflict, Tom! Conflict leading to insanity and the desperate need to find an escape from opposed problems.

“And this is the man who has worked out the means to create fission in nonradioactive materials!”

*

I’m not stupid and I don’t need a drawing, but just now I wish I was a moron, or a moth, or something brainless and untormented with thoughts of what-might-be. Cottrell has gone, driving like a madman over those rutted trails, but he knows and I know that he can’t possibly be in time. So I sit, smoking, thinking, listening to the cicadas and waiting for dawn.

Maybe Cottrell is all wrong and the professor has worked out a safe formula. Or maybe Cottrell is right and the professor wants the world to go up in atomic flame so as to revenge himself on the killer of his daughter and at the same time be with her in the only way he can.

The Eyes of Silence

The cell was ten feet long, eight feet high and six wide. It held the bare essentials for sleeping, washing and sanitation. The walls were coated with a spongy green plastic, almost indestructible, seamless and soundproof. The single light came from behind a transparent panel in the ceiling. The door was a sheet of one-way glass perforated with countless holes for ventilation. There was no window. It was the modern version of a medieval oubliette. Ward Hammond had lived in it for two years.

He lay in the inevitable prison position, supine on the narrow cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was a big man, pale, muscles wasted and skin soft. He wore a loose shirt and slacks of drab gray. He had no belt, no tie, no underwear. His feet were bare. The clothing was made of paper and renewed every ten days. It tore easily and had so little mechanical strength that a rope made from it broke at the slightest strain. Suicide was actively discouraged. Insanity was not.

It was easy to go insane when locked in a narrow cell twenty-four hours a day, divorced from all human contact, fed with concentrates wrapped in edible packages which arrived, like the clothing, through a blind trap in the wall. Society had come to the conclusion that people were sent to prison to be punished and that as long as physical hardship was avoided, the punishment was justified. So, for the prisoners, the world ceased to exist. Everything ceased to exist but the narrow confines of their cells, the constant light, the constant loneliness. Insanity, to them, was literal escape.

A whisper of sound came from the corridor and Ward tensed, twisting on the cot so as to bring his ear hard against the door. The sound was unusual, for a prisoner could scream his throat raw and be heard only by the monitor guard listening over the spy mikes in each cell. The whisper came closer, magnified by a trick of acoustics, the regular beat of hard shoes. They halted outside the door, and Ward sat upright on the cot as it slid aside. Two men entered the cell. Ward thought he knew what they wanted.

“More tests?” He moved along the cot, making room if the others wished to sit. One of them was a quiet man with a thoughtful expression and a uniform which matched the green plastic of the walls. He held a gas gun which he kept pointed toward the prisoner. The other man was a civilian. He wore a dark business suit and carried a folder of papers beneath his arm. He did not look like a psychiatrist but appearances meant nothing.

“No tests, at least not in the way you’re thinking.” The civilian hesitated between sitting on the toilet or the cot. He chose the cot. “My name is Fromach.”

“You know mine,” said Ward. He glanced at the guard, standing just inside the relocked door. His companion couldn’t be seen, but Ward knew that he would be waiting outside. It was the classic pattern, one guard inside ready to release a cloud of stunning gas if the prisoner made an aggressive move, the other to watch from absolute safety. There could be no escape from the prison.

“Ward Hammond, engineer, sentenced to a term of seven years imprisonment for fraud. It was a nonviolent crime and so you were not automatically lobotomized on conviction,” said Fromach easily. “Correct?”

“You know it is.” Ward looked at the civilian. “What’s all this about?”

“You have served two of your seven years,” said Fromach, reading from his papers. “During that time you have proved a model prisoner, showing a high index of stability and an intelligent acceptance of your environment.” He lifted his head, smiling. “In other words you haven’t flown into violent rages, tried to commit suicide, beat down the walls or anything equally stupid.”

“Would it have done any good if I had?”

“None at all.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Ward. He leaned back against the wall, enjoying the company, the sound of another voice, the feel of conversation on his lips and tongue. “Acting up is the quickest way to get certified for lobotomy.”

“And automatic release,” reminded Fromach. “Don’t forget that.”

“I came into this place a man,” said Ward tightly. “I intend leaving the same, not as a brain-slashed zombie.”

“A lobotomized prisoner is deemed no longer to be the individual who committed the crime for which he was sentenced,” pointed out Fromach. “You could volunteer for it.”

“No.” Ward was curt. “And they can’t do it to me unless I’m judged insane by at least two doctors. Even a prisoner has some rights.”

“They will be respected,” assured Fromach. “You can stay in this cell for a further five years and, if you remain sane, you will not be touched.” His eyes were meaningful. “If you remain sane.”

“I will.”

“I wonder?” Fromach examined the cell, the green walls, the opaque door. He prodded the mattress, solidly constructed as an integral part of the immovable bed. The sanitation arrangements did not trap water, and shaving was done by a non-poisonous cream which removed hair and stunned the follicles for several days. Ward guessed his thoughts.

“Suicide is a symptom of insanity. That’s out, too.”

“Seventy-eight percent of all long-term prisoners eventually attempt suicide,” said Fromach mildly. “Some of the methods employed are extremely ingenious. None are successful.”

“So?”

“What makes you so certain that you are different from other men? Five years is a long time, Ward. A very long time.”

“I like my own company.” Ward looked at the guard then at Fromach. “What are you trying to do? Is it a part of my punishment that I should be mentally disturbed by your visits?”

“No.” Fromach busied himself with his papers. “I’m here to offer you a choice. You can stay in this cell for the remainder of your term — or you can leave here within ten days.”

“Leave!” Ward’s face hardened as he fought the sudden almost overpowering blaze of hope. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“It’s no joke,” said Fromach, and now he was no longer smiling. “I’m perfectly serious. The choice is yours.”

“All right,” said Ward flatly. “I believe you. What’s the catch?”

*

The spaceship cabin was, if anything, worse than the cell, but Ward didn’t mind. He lay on the bunk and looked at the curved segment of the hull beyond his feet and listened to all the little, manmade sounds which filtered through from the other parts of the ship. Footsteps, the hum of conversation, a cough, an occasional laugh. Mingled with the manmade sounds were others — mechanical clickings, the soft purr of the air-conditioners, the almost inaudible vibration of the engines.

The door clicked open and Fromach entered the cabin. He locked the door behind him, looking apologetically at Ward.

“Sorry, but you are still a prisoner and the regulations have to be obeyed.”

“You’ll have to start trusting me soon,” reminded Ward. “Why not now?”

“I know,” said Fromach. “There’s no logic in it, but when has officialdom ever been logical?” He sat on the edge of the bunk. “No regrets?”

“No.” Ward stared at the metal of the hull. “Some questions, though.”

“Such as?”

“You explained why I was chosen. I’ve lived for two years in solitary confinement and remained sane. That’s the sort of test you couldn’t give to normal volunteers. But why not use more than one man at a station?”

“Two men are out,” said Fromach. “The psychological tensions would be too great, and they’d be murdering each other before the first year. Three men are better but the tensions would still exist — with complications. Two of them would gang up on the third, or one of them would think the other two were against him. It comes to the same thing. Four men? Five? Seven? Seven would work, but then we run into the supply factor. The watch stations aren’t big and a multiple of seven times essential supplies is out of the question.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No. There are two other reasons. One is that it costs a lot of money to staff a watch station. A man expects to finish his five-year term rich. The pay has to be high in order to attract volunteers and even then they demand a watertight contract. Free medical attention, free entertainment, free this and free that. And no matter what happens, we have to pay for the full term.”

Ward grunted. “And you said that officialdom wasn’t logical! What could be more logical than offering a prisoner the chance to work out his sentence on a watch station? No arguments about pay, no extreme demands, no trouble finding a source of volunteers. Simply offer to exchange a cell on Earth for a larger one somewhere in space. Throw in a few luxuries and who would refuse? Simple.”

“Not so simple,” corrected Fromach. “We have to find the right man, someone with a basic understanding of engineering and electronics, someone who has proved that he can stand being on his own for a long period and who still has many years to go before release. There aren’t too many of them.”

“I should have asked for more money,” said Ward. “A credit a day isn’t much.”

“A hundredth of what a normal volunteer would expect,” admitted Fromach. “But better than nothing.”

“Better than I was getting.” Ward frowned up at the ceiling. “What happens to the volunteers when they break? They do break, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“Yes.” Fromach was casual. “The average volunteer lasts just under two years. We pick them up, provide a relief, fetch them back for treatment.”

“Lobotomy?”

“Not necessarily. Lobotomy can only be given with the full consent of the patient or his relatives. Consent is rarely given.”

“No,” said Ward feelingly. “It wouldn’t be.” He paused, a small knot of fear gathering in his stomach. “How do I stand on that?”

“You are a prisoner,” said Fromach delicately. “The fact that you have chosen to serve your sentence on a watch station instead of in a prison makes no difference to your status. If you break, you will automatically be lobotomized.”

Protest was useless. Modem society wasted neither pity nor sentiment on its criminals. The answer, obviously, was to remain sane. Ward looked at Fromach. “Was that the second reason?”

“What?”

“You said there were two other reasons for choosing me. You’ve told me one of them. Have you told me the other?”

“In a way.” Fromach rose and unlocked the door. He paused with the panel half-open. “The true reason, of course, contains all the others. You’re no fool, you should be able to figure out what that is.”

Alone, Ward relaxed as he had learned to relax during the past two years. He didn’t have to wonder what Fromach had meant. The logic was inescapable. Criminals were expendable.

*

The watch station was a laminated dome set on the ice of Callisto. It held instruments connected to spatial probes, instruments for cosmic ray counting, instruments to measure the variations in orbit of the other satellites revolving around the immense bulk of Jupiter. It held instruments to record everything which went on around it, together with more instruments to record the findings on permanent tape. It also held living quarters for one man.

“We’ve stations like this scattered over the entire solar system,” said Fromach before he left. “We’ve got them on every satellite, most of the large asteroids and even some in free orbit. They do nothing but collect data, and we come on regular schedule to collect the filled tapes.”

“How regular?”

“Maybe once a year, two years. It doesn’t matter.”

“Not to the machines, it doesn’t,” agreed Ward. “But what about me?”

“Your job is to keep watch on the machines. Call it general maintenance.”

“Janitor’s work.” Ward was disappointed. “Is that all?”

“It’s enough.” Fromach held out his hand. “Goodbye, Ward.”

“I’ll be seeing you.” Ward gripped the proffered hand. “A couple more questions. Any radio?”

“Only for ship to station communication. The static is too bad for any distance.” Fromach was impatient to get away. “Anything else?”

“One thing. What do you do with all the data you’re collecting?”

“We feed it into a big computer back home. One day, when we’ve enough data, we’ll be able to find out everything about the comer of the universe in which we live.” Fromach stepped to the exit port, was gone. Minutes later the ship left, too. Ward was alone.

He didn’t let it worry him. He checked the instruments and found the repair manuals. He fixed some food and brewed some coffee. He found a small library of tattered books, some magnetic, three-dimensional jigsaws; other items collected over the years by previous attendants who had their own ideas of how to relieve the monotony.

He chuckled at the assortment. None of the previous attendants had had his experience. Two years in a small cell without company, books or recreation of any kind had made him indifferent to toys. To Ward five years in this place promised to be a snap.

At first time passed easily enough. He examined the station, read everything there was to read, played with the three-dimensional jigsaw and other toys and sampled various combinations of food from the storeroom. He even tried to regain his lost fitness with a series of self-invented exercises. He didn’t succeed. The confined quarters and lack of equipment reduced his activities to a program of bends, push-ups and muscular tension, valuable back home but here, because of the low gravity, almost useless.