X
Execution
The hours of waiting were blurred for Doc. There were periods when fearclogged his throat and left him gasping with the need to scream and beathis cell walls. There were also times when it didn't seem to matter, andwhen his only thoughts were for the villages and the plague.
They brought him the papers, where he was painted as a monster besidewhom Jack the Ripper and Albrecht Delier were gentle amateurs. They weretrying to focus all fear and resentment on him. Maybe it was working.There were screaming crowds outside the jail, and the noise of theirhatred was strong enough to carry through even the atmosphere of Mars.But there were also signs that the Lobby was worried, as if afraid thatsome attempt might still be made to rescue him.
He'd looked forward to the trip to the airport as a way of judgingpublic reaction. But apparently the Lobby had no desire to test that.The guards led him up to the roof of the jail, where a rocket waswaiting. The landing space was too small for one of the stationshuttles, but a little Northport-Southport shuttle was parked thereafter what must have been a difficult set-down. The guards tested Doc'smanacles and forced him into the shuttle.
Inside, Chris was waiting, carrying an official automatic. There wasalso a young pilot, looking nervous and unhappy. He was muttering underhis breath as the guards locked Doc's legs to a seat and left.
"All right," Chris ordered. "Up ship!"
"I tell you we're overweight with you. I wasn't counting on three forthe trip," the pilot protested. "The only thing that will get this intoorbit with the station is faith. I'm loaded with every drop of fuelshe'll hold and it still isn't enough."
"That's your problem," Chris told him firmly. "You've got your orders,and so have I. Up ship!"
If she had her own worries about the shuttle, she didn't show it. Chrishad never been afraid to do what she felt she should. The pilot staredat her doubtfully and finally turned back to his controls, stillmuttering.
The shuttle lifted sluggishly, but there was no great difficulty. Doccould see that there was even some fuel remaining when they slipped intothe tube at the orbital station. Chris went out, and other guards camein to free him.
"So long, Dr. Feldman," the pilot called softly as they led him out.Then the guards shoved him through the airlock into the station. Fifteenminutes later he was locked into one of the cabins of the _Iroquois_,with all his possessions stacked beside him.
He grinned wryly. As an honest worker on the _Navaho_ he'd been treatedlike an animal. Now, as a human fiend, he was installed in a luxurycabin of the finest ship of the fleet, with constant spin to give afeeling of weight and more room than the entire tube crew had known.
He roamed the cabin until he found a little collapsible table. He setthe electron microscope up on that and plugged it in. It seemed a shamethat good equipment should be wasted along with his life. He wonderedif they would really throw it out into space with him. Probably theywould.
He pushed a button on the call board over the table and asked for thesteward. There was a long wait, as if the procedure were being checkedwith some authority, but finally he received a surly acknowledgement."Steward. Whatcha want?"
"How's the chance of getting some food?"
"You're on first-class."
They could afford it, Doc decided. He wouldn't cost them much,considering the distance he was going. "Bring me two completedinners--one Earth-normal and one Mars-normal."
"Okay, Feldman. But if you think you can suicide that way, you're wrong.You may be sick, but you'll be alive when they dump you."
A sharp click interrupted him. "That's enough, Steward. Captain Evertsspeaking. Dr. Feldman, you have my apologies. Until you reach yourdestination, you are my passenger and entitled to every consideration ofany other passenger except freedom of movement through the ship. I amalways available for legitimate complaints."
Feldman shook his head. He'd heard of such men. But he'd thought thespecies extinct.
The steward brought his food in a thoroughly chastened manner. Hemanaged to find space for it and came to attention. "Is that all--sir?"
For a moment, as the smell of real steak reached him, Doc regretted thefact that his metabolism had been switched. Then he shrugged. A littlewouldn't hurt him, though there was no proper nourishment in it. Hesqueezed some of the gravy and bits of meat into one of his bottles,sticking to his purpose; then he fell to on the rest. But after a fewbites, it was queerly unsatisfactory. The seemingly unappealingMars-normal ragout suited his current tastes better, after all.
Once the steward had cleared away the dishes, Doc went to work. It wasbetter than wasting his time in dread. He might even be able to leavesome notes behind.
A gong sounded, and a red light warned him that acceleration was due. Hefinished with his bottles, put them into the incubator, and piled intohis bunk, swallowing one of the tablets of morphetal the ship furnished.
Acceleration had ended, and a simple breakfast was waiting when heawoke. There was also a red flashing light over the call board. Heflipped the switch while reaching for the coffee.
"Captain Everts," the speaker said. "May I join you in your cabin?"
"Come ahead," Feldman invited. He cut off the switch and glanced at theclock on the wall. There were less than eleven hours left to him.
Everts was a trim man of forty, erect but not rigid. There was neitherfriendliness nor hostility in his glance. His words were courteous asDoc motioned toward the tray of breakfast. "I've already eaten, thankyou."
He accepted a chair. His voice was apologetic when he began. "This is apersonal matter which I perhaps have no right to bring up. But my wifeis greatly worried about this plague. I violate no confidence in tellingyou there is considerable unease, even on Earth, according to messages Ihave received. The ship physician believes Mrs. Everts may have theplague, but isn't sure of the symptoms. I understand you are quiteexpert."
Doc wondered about the physician. Apparently there was another man whoplaced his patients above anything else, though he was probablymeticulous about obeying all actual rules. There was no law againstlistening to a pariah, at least.
"When did she have Selznik's migraine?" he asked.
"About thirteen years ago. We went through it together, shortly afterhaving our metabolism switched during the food shortage of '88."
Doc felt carefully at the base of the Captain's skull; the swelling wasthere. He asked a few questions, but there could be no doubt.
"Both of you must have it, Captain, though it won't mature for anotheryear. I'm sorry."
"There's no hope, then?"
Doc studied the man. But Everts wasn't the sort to dicker even for hislife. "Nothing that I've found, Captain. I have a clue, but I'm stillworking on it. Perhaps if I could leave a few notes for yourphysician--"
It was Everts' turn to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Dr. Feldman. I haveorders to burn out your cabin when you leave. But thank you." He got tohis feet and left as quietly and erectly as he had entered.
Doc tore up his notes bitterly. He paced his cabin slowly, reading outthe hours while his eyes lingered on the little bottle of cultures. Attimes the fear grew in him, but he mastered it. There was half an hourleft when he began opening the little bottles and making his films.
He was still not finished when steps echoed down the hall, but he wasreasonably sure of his results. The bug could not grow in Earth-normaltissue.
Three men entered the room. One of them, dressed in a spacesuit, heldout another suit to him. The other two began gathering up everything inthe cabin and stowing it neatly into a sack designed to protect freightfor a limited time in a vacuum.
Doc forced his hands to steadiness with foolish pride and began climbinginto the suit. He reached for the helmet, but the man shook his head,pointing to the oxygen gauge. There would be exactly one hour's supplyof oxygen when he was thrown out and it still lacked five minutes of thedeadline.
They marched him down the hallway, to meet Everts coming toward them.There were still three
minutes left when they reached the airlock, withits inner door already open. The spacesuited man climbed into it andbegan strapping down so that the rush of air would not sweep him outwardwhen the other seal was released.
Doc had saved one bracky weed. Now he raised it to his lips, fumblingfor a light.
Everts stepped forward and flipped a lighter. Doc inhaled deeply. Fearwas thick in every muscle, and he needed the smoke desperately. Then hecaught himself.
"Better change your metabolism back to Earth-normal, Captain Everts," hesaid, and his voice was so normal that he hardly recognized it.
Everts' eyes widened briefly. The man bowed faintly. "Thank you, Dr.Feldman."
It was ridiculous, impossible, and yet there was a curious relief at theformality of it. It was like something from a play, too unreal to affecthis life.
Everts nodded to the man holding the helmet. Doc dropped his bracky weedand felt the helmet snap down. A hiss of oxygen reached him and the suitballooned out. There was no gravity; the two men handed him up easily tothe one in the airlock while the inner seal began to close.
There was still ten seconds to go, according to the big chronometer thathad been installed in the lock. The spaceman used it in tying the sackof possessions firmly to Doc's suit.
A red light went on. The man caught Doc and held him against the outerseal. The red light blinked. Four seconds ... three ... two....
There was a sudden heavy thudding sound, and the _Iroquois_ seemed tojerk sideways slightly. The spaceman's face swung around in surprise.
The red light blinked and stayed on. Zero!
The outer seal snapped open and the spaceman heaved. Air explodedoutwards, and Doc went with it. He was alone in space, gliding away fromthe ship, with oxygen hissing softly through the valve and ticking awayhis life.