The Collected Stories

by Earl

  Strato-prison guards waited to take the two new prisoners within the prison. As they walked past other prisoners, Hale looked them over in revulsion. He saw men with the degrading mark of prison and their crimes on them. Their faces were harsh and brutal. Every other word of their muttered conversation was a coarse oath. Human in name only, they seemed closer to beasts, completely divorced from normal human life. They hailed the new prisoners with ribald expressions of mock welcome.

  And yet, among them, Hale saw a sensitive, almost aristocratic face. The eyes that met his were filled with infinite misery. And an infinite pity—for Hale! Hale shuddered. Probably another man the Five had railroaded into this accursed, forsaken place.

  “Get along, you!” A guard kicked Hale forward. “No time to day-dream around. Obey orders and you’ll keep out of trouble.”

  The way led through a seal-door that opened out on a broad, dimly lit corridor. It was a section of the upper levels, living quarters of the guards, jailers and non-criminal attendants in the vast prison.

  Farther on, in a series of rooms, Hale and Ranee were fingerprinted, photographed, stripped, put under a disinfecting spray, and shaved of all hair. As a final ignominy, numbers were indelibly tattooed with electric-needles on the bare skin of their chests. Finally ushered before the warden of Strato-prison, they were clad in denim with numbers on their backs to match the numbers on their chests.

  WARDEN LEWIS eyed them impersonally. He was a man, Hale saw, who would have sneered at the word “soul.”

  “You are no longer Tom Ranee and Richard Hale,” he said coldly. “You are T-sixteen-twenty-one and Y-fourteen-eighteen. You left your identities on Earth. You will never regain them.”

  Hale went cold at the fiat final tone. This man had seen thousands of prisoners come and go. They came in life and went in death. But they never escaped this super-bastille of the sky.

  “All details of prison life will be explained to you by the jailers. There is a routine of eating, sleeping, drilling, and laboring that must be abided by—or else it goes hard with you. T-sixteen-twenty-one, you may go. Y-fourteen-eighteen, you will remain a moment.”

  Ranee turned to leave.

  “I’ll be seeing you around, Hale,” he said in farewell.

  Hale nodded. He actually hated to see Ranee go. Murderer though he was, he was the closest thing to a friend in all this hostile place.

  The master of Strato-prison smiled peculiarly.

  “I don’t think you’ll see him again, Y-fourteen-eighteen,” he said deliberately. “You are a very special case. My orders, from Earth, are to confine you immediately in solitary!”

  “Thanks,” Hale said, thinking of a cell of his own. He felt relief that he wouldn’t be paired with one of those shattered hulks of men.

  “Do you know what solitary means?” continued the warden, smiling without humor. “It means being locked in a cell, utterly alone—till death!”

  Hale kept his head high, though he flinched inside.

  “Orders from Earth? From the Five!” he gritted bitterly, half to himself. “For that, too, I’ll have my revenge!”

  “Revenge?” the warden laughed. “Don’t build up hope of escape, not the tiniest hope. In thirty years only one man escaped. You won’t repeat the miracle. You had your last look at Earth, your friends and your enemies when you left. It’s a pity in a way. You’re so young, upright, intelligent. Soon you’ll be old—”

  He broke off, looking guilty, as though caught in the act of having feelings his position did not allow him to have.

  “Take him away,” he brusquely ordered a guard. “Solitary cell B-fifty-five.”

  He turned away as though from a man about to be buried.

  CHAPTER V

  Solitary

  DOWN in a wire cage elevator they went, passing through successive levels of the colossal prison. Most of the levels were long cell-blocks. Shifts of prisoners were being marched in here and there, or marched out to drills, mess, or labor detail. The extreme regimentation left Hale sick.

  Lower levels held the mess-halls, drill rooms and repair shops. One huge level was crammed with great AJP-dynamos and sun-power converters, where the more highly skilled prisoners were employed. Below this were storerooms.

  The elevator went lower, toward the bottom of the giant metal ball. Gradually all the lights and noises faded from above. Gloom and quiet surrounded them. The elevator stopped, and the guard turned Hale over to the lower-level jailer. After a pitying look at him, the guard sent the cage up swiftly, as though glad to get away.

  The jailer led the way to the end of a corridor, and switched on a visi-screen that showed simply blank space and stars. The Sun was far off in one corner. The crescent Moon hung nearby, sharp and clear. Below, vaguely, lay the great curving bulk of Earth, blanketed by clouds. It was a weirdly beautiful scene, thrilling Hale. Then he turned.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  The jailer had stood quietly watching him.

  “Those who are sent to solitary are always given a last look,” he said indifferently. “Like the last meal before execution, in history. You will be all alone in your dark cell, cut off from everything. You won’t even see me. Food will come to you twice a day by robot conveyor. The rest of the time is your own.”

  After pausing, the jailer went on with an uninflected voice, as though on a guide tour.

  “Every six months you are examined by the prison’s psychiatrist, for your sanity. Most of them go mad eventually. When he’s been proved mad, the prisoner is put away painlessly, by the Mercy Euthanasia Law of nineteen-seventy-seven.”

  Hale gasped. Did such things go on in the world he had thought civilized? Strato-prison was really an anachronism, a lag from the harsher times prior to 1979, a spawn of the concentration camps of dictator days. But prison reform, like all reforms, was far behind the times. Earth did not hear much of the true inside story of Strato-prison, as Hale was now hearing it.

  All through history, the good and bad had existed side by side. In the first half of the 20th century, for instance, a million people had lived in frightful squalor in New York City’s slums, under the very noses of the rich. Strato-prison was the blemish of more enlightened 2000 A. D.

  “Inhuman!” Hale cried. “The system drives them mad!”

  “You think those with strong minds, like yourself—” He stopped, as though saying too much. “Those sent to solitary are the ones who never confessed their crimes. All you have to do is confess and escape it.”

  Hale’s mind exploded.

  “Confess to something I’m innocent of? Never, I tell you! Never!”

  The jailer shrugged. “Come. Walk ahead of me. I’m armed.”

  Striding along, Hale saw the diabolical ruthless hand of the Five in this. They hoped he would be driven mad, and thus die in the loophole of the Euthanasia Law. On the other hand, if he confessed to escape solitary, he was condemning himself irrevocably. And they knew, damn their rotten souls, that Hale was not the kind to confess a lie.

  Hale felt the Five, like an invisible octopus, giving their last fatal squeeze.

  He was before his cell now, a metal chamber built into the metal walls of the prison. Farther down was another, and from it came a low, steady moan that chilled Hale’s blood. Some poor creature in there was at the brink of madness.

  Hale marched in with shoulders squared. Hope had not yet entirely deserted him.

  The thick metal door grated shut, like the lid of a coffin. A hissing click sounded, as the electrical lock shot home. Hale was alone, in solitary. . . .

  THE room was almost, not quite, lightless. A faint reflected glow came from the corridor through the ventilation vanes in the door.

  It was ten feet square. Hale bumped his shins against a metal cot, as he explored gropingly. He felt a hard mattress and thin, rough blanket. There was no other furniture in the room. It was a dungeon, the most miserable form of habitation invented by the human mind. In one corner was a small refuse closet.
A lingering odor attested that the last unfortunate had spited himself.

  His inspection over, Hale sat down on the bunk. For the moment he was glad of the dark and quiet. It gave him a chance to think over the recent tumultuous events in his life. Bitterly he reviewed the whole maddening sequence.

  New Year’s Eve—New Century’s Eve! How happy and proud he had been! He had stood on top of the world. His father’s life-work was about to be consummated with his gift to civilization in the great Subatlantic Tube. Laura Asquith had been at his side, happiness ahead of them. That night had been a supreme moment, glorious in its promise.

  Hale recaptured the mood for a moment, his spirit soaring.

  Then his hand touched the hard metal of his bunk. . . .

  With a rude, jarring shock, he was back in prison. In one crushing blow he had lost all that. From the high he plunged to the low.

  Like a phantom newsreel, the court scene flashed through his mind. The Five, maneuvering his downfall, hung real as life before him. Fat, white, black-sculed Jonathan Mausser, who delighted in legal torture. Brutal, hard Ivan von Grenfeld, trampler of human souls. Thin, avaricious Sir Charles Paxton, placing gold above human honor. Spidery, cold-brained Dr. Emanuel Gordy, visioning a human ant-heap under his whip.

  But it hurt most to think of Peter Asquith, the man who had posed as his friend, yet had dug his pit. And Laura, the girl who had said:

  “I will stick with you, no matter what happens!”

  The darkness of his cell was merciful. Richard Hale felt glad that he could not see his face in a mirror at that moment. He knew a twisted leer had been etched on his features by the acid of bitterness.

  He jumped to his feet, began to pace up and down. He bumped against one wall and reeled away, cursing.

  “Revenge!” The word swung like a pendulum in his mind.

  It was all he had to live for now, revenge on those who had sent him to perdition. He must not go mad. He must keep his sanity. He was young and strong. He wouldn’t languish and die as men did in historical romances. Years and years were ahead of him. He would plot and scheme to escape. One man had done it. There must be a way. Somehow he would get out—some day.

  And then he would confront the Five. He would stand before them like a ghost from the past. He would remind them of their frightful crime against him. They would quake to the bottom of their worm-eaten souls.

  HOURS later, Hale’s tumultuous thoughts were interrupted by a clicking sound, followed by a sliding clank. Now accustomed to the near-darkness, his eyes easily made out the moving object. A lower slot in the door had opened. A tray scraped forward. The robot conveyor had brought him his first prison meal.

  Hale sat before the tray, sampling the food. There were three wooden bowls. One held a thick stew of meats and vegetables, highly spiced, hiding its rancidness. The second held hard bread. The third was tepid water.

  At least, he reflected as he ate, they didn’t starve their prisoners. He was careful to let no crumbs fall on the floor, for there was poor ventilation. He saw no sense in adding to his own discomfort. With a little neatness and care, the cell would remain half-way decent. Resolve was strong within him to last out the bare, bleak future ahead of him.

  A half hour later, the robot conveyor came to life again, sliding back the tray and closing the door slot. Hale heard the sounds of a sort of running belt system that operated under the floor. Then the sounds abruptly ceased. . . .

  For the first time Hale became aware of the silence—in utter, aching, tomblike silence. No slightest sound penetrated the metal walls. Though tired, he tossed and turned for hours on his hard bed before he fell asleep, finally beaten down by that unnatural dead quiet.

  Three days later, Hale still found himself fighting the silence. He had more than once put his ear to the ventilation slits, hoping to hear some sound from outside. Even the mad moaning of another prisoner would have been welcome. But he heard nothing—nothing!

  He began to welcome and wait for the clink and scrape of the robot conveyor. It seemed as though days passed between its clocked arrivals, though he knew it was only a matter of hours.

  He kept telling himself to relax, not to let it break him. Yet within a week he tried the one thing he had told himself he must never do—talk aloud to himself. His voice at first terrified him, sounding hollow and strange. Then soon it seemed natural to express all his thoughts aloud. But whenever his voice died, the silence seemed to spring at him like a crouching beast.

  Darkness, too, preyed gratingly on his nerves.

  He found himself holding his bands before his face, going over their dim outline, fearful that he was going blind without knowing it. It was a stupid thought, he knew, but stupid thoughts like that eternally crawled up on him. Worst of all, the uselessness of his eyes allowed his mental visions full play. And these endlessly revolved around the court scene and the hated faces of the Five.

  A third thing that plagued the lonely prisoner was the slowness of time. The cliche “Time hanging heavily” became a living truth to him. Often he was convinced that the conveyor was hours and days late with his food, only to realize the pangs of hunger never coincided with that conviction. For a month he meticulously kept a mental record of the time, by the conveyor. Then, hoping time would fly faster if he didn’t know, he dropped the count.

  Silence, darkness and snail-footed time were his three enemies. The Three, he began to call them in grim jest.

  Silence, broken only by his own footsteps and hoarse voice . . . Darkness, peopled with his extinct past, making his hell more hellish by contrast . . . Dragging time that stretched before him like a shuddery, bottomless pit. . . .

  NEVER would he know for sure when he had his first breakdown. But he was suddenly screaming at the top of his voice, beating against the walls and door with his fists till his skin cracked and became slippery with blood. He pleaded, begged, shrieked to be let out. It went on for whole desperate minutes.

  “Hallo, you in there. What do you want Y-fourteen-eighteen?”

  Hale choked to stunned silence. The jailer’s voice was speaking through the door slits. It was the first human voice, other than his own, that Hale had heard for eternity. It sounded heavenly sweet.

  “I—” But Hale didn’t know what to say.

  “You want to sign a confession?”

  That was the reason he had come. Hale swallowed hard.

  “No, never!” he croaked.

  “All right.” With that phlegmatic phrase, the jailer was leaving.

  “Wait! Don’t go!” begged Hale. “Haven’t you got a minute spare? Talk to me.” Hale wanted desperately to have the man stay. “Tell me. How are you?” It was first thing that came to his mind.

  “Against the rules to talk to prisoners.” The jailer’s voice moved away. It had been expressionless, unmoved.

  Hale stood for a long time with his back against the door, a hollow misery trembling through every fiber of him. He fought for the control he had nearly lost.

  “Revenge!” he gritted aloud to himself. “Remember that, Richard Hale—revenge! You’ve got keep sane and live for that!”

  Yet to do that he had to escape from an iron globe, completely sealed, swarming with guards, perched fifty miles above Earth. Impossible, yet one man had done it. Somehow he had thought out a way. Hale, too, must think a way out, even if it took years.

  CHAPTER VI

  How to Test a Mind

  ATTUNED to graveyard silence, his ears made out the faintest of sounds from outside his cell door. Footsteps were approaching! When the electric clock clicked, and the door began to swing open, Hale realized that six perpetual, age-long months had gone by. For they were coming to examine him.

  His eyes winced and watered at the blinding light that sprang in. Blinding light? He knew the corridor was dim. The jailer stood there, a slouched, ill-kempt human figure. But looked more godlike, to Hale, than the best of Grecian statuary.

  “Come along,” said the jailer. “Up to t
he psychiatrist’s office.”

  Hale staggered out.

  Another prisoner stood there, a ragged, bearded wretch who had once been strong and broad-shouldered. He was scrawny and hollow-eyed now, staring about in deep bewilderment. Hale knew how he felt, seeing something besides his dark cell. But the man acted queerly. He clutched at Hale’s arm.

  “Why is it so dark here?” he mumbled.

  “It isn’t!” sang back Hale, drinking in the optical paradise. It felt good just to talk and look. “It’s as light as day here. It’s bright and shiny and fresh—”

  He stopped, looking at the other prisoner pityingly.

  A look of horror had come over the man’s haggard face. He passed his hands in front of his eyes.

  “Everything is dim to me!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I can hardly see. And you say it’s light here?” A shriek burst from his lips. “It happened! It happened! I’ve gone blind—”

  Abruptly, he sank to the floor.

  “Fainted,” said the jailer. “I’ll send someone to take care of him. Come with me, Y-fourteen-eighteen.”

  Hale stood before a mirror a minute later, shocked. Saw himself as a wild, savage figure with a ragged beard, tangled mane of hair, prison-pallor skin, threadbare evil-smelling clothes. He resembled something out of a child’s nightmare.

  He was permitted the luxury of a bath, given a new denim suit, and his hair was indifferently clipped by a hurried attendant. Yet, it was all sheer delight to Hale. And when the elevator took him up, past lighted levels filled with sound, he thought it was like ascending to some heaven, by contrast with his isolated cell.

  Hale finally stood before the psychiatrist, Dr. Riss, and Warden Lewis. They eyed him narrowly.

  “They’re wondering if I’m insane. But I’m not—”