Rogue in Space

by Fredric Brown

  “And after that?”

  “Oh, I got kicked around a while. Then I started kicking back. Is this going to take much longer?”

  “Another hour, to make it take as much time as a real psyching would.”

  “These straps are getting to hurt. Will you let me out of this chair if I give you my parole?”

  Judeth hesitated. Then she said, “In a minute, yes. But there’s one thing that will have to go in my report that you might resent my questioning you about. I’d rather get it over first. Why do you hate women so much?”

  “A pleasure to tell you. I’d been married about a month at the time of my accident, to a girl I was mad about. Do I have to tell you what she did when she learned I was short a hand and a job?”

  “Divorced you?”

  “She was remarried before I got out of the hospital.”

  “Did you ever—do anything about it?”

  “You mean kill her? I hated her too much ever to want to see or touch her again—even to kill her.”

  “And you won’t admit to yourself that you’re still in love with her?”

  Crag’s face turned red and his veins swelled with sudden anger as he strained against the straps. “If I were free, I’d—”

  “Of course you would. Anything more you want to tell me about her, Crag?”

  “She had hair just the color of yours. And she was as beautiful as you.” He paused a second. “No, you are more beautiful. And more evil.”

  “Not evil, Crag. Just ruthless. Like you. All right, that’s enough about that, for my report. We won’t mention her, or women, again. And all right, I’ll release you now.”

  She unfastened the strap buckles and Crag stood up, first rubbing his forehead—the strap that had held his head back had been the most uncomfortable—and then his wrists. “What else?” he asked.

  “List of crimes, for one thing. They want that particularly, so they can be written off as solved crimes instead of carried as unsolved ones. Might as well be honest about it. You’ve nothing to lose and it might as well sound good.”

  Crag laughed. “Get ready for a lot of writing.”

  “You can talk it into a sound recorder for the police to transcribe later. But before I turn it on—keep your voice flat and emotionless, talk as though you were in a trance. That’s the way you’d sound if you were giving this information under the machine. And sit down again so you’ll be the right distance from the pickup. Ready?”

  Crag said he was ready. She clicked on the recorder.

  Crag described briefly the major crimes he had committed, leaving out only two, jobs on which he had used accomplices who were still, as far as he knew, living. Then he looked at Judeth and gestured, and she shut off the machine.

  “How about the crime I was convicted for, the nephthin job. Am I supposed to confess to that too?”

  “I think you’d better, Crag. If I had to report that you didn’t, it might stir up further investigation, and that’s the last thing we want. Let’s see, you were on Venus a year ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say you bought the nephthin then, from a man whom you knew as—make up any name and a few details they can’t check as to where and how you knew him. Say you’d held it until now, until you heard the price was high in Albuquerque, but that you had no special buyer in mind, you intended to look for one.”

  Crag nodded and added that to the list when she turned on the machine again. “Anything else?” he asked, when the recorder was off again.

  “Yes, your escape yesterday. You’ll have to tell how that was worked. I’ve worked out a story for you that can’t be disproved.”

  “What is it?”

  “The guard you killed on your way out was named Koster. Up to a year ago he was a bartender in Chicago. Say you got to know him there. Say he came to you day before yesterday in your cell and offered to help you escape for ten thousand dollars you could pay him after you were free. You accepted, and he gave you the things you needed for the escape.”

  “And why would I have killed him then?”

  “To save ten thousand dollars.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have had to pay it anyway if I hadn’t wanted to. This is better. He gave me a route and a time which would take me through the portal he was guarding. He’d never intended really to help me escape; he intended to kill me and get credit for stopping an escape, and get promotion. But he was a little slow pulling his gun, as I was watching for just that particular double-cross, and I got the gun away from him and killed him with it.”

  “Much better. Tell it that way. You think fast, Crag.”

  She turned on the recorder again long enough for him to tell how he had escaped.

  “All right,” she said when she’d shut it off. “That finished things. The psycher, right now, is supposed to be expunging from your memory everything that, under its first cycle, you told me about yourself and your crimes.” She looked at her watch. “We’ve got about another fifteen minutes. Better let me strap you in the chair again now.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re supposed still to be strapped in when I leave and the guards come for you. And when they loosen the straps there’d better be marks from them, especially the one across your forehead. Otherwise, they’ll wonder.”

  He bent down and fastened the straps on his own ankles, then leaned back with his arms on the arms of the chair and let her adjust the others. The one on his left wrist reminded him. “You knew about my hand,” he said. “How many others know? Does that go in the report? They might want to insist on my getting a regular one.”

  “Don’t worry, Crag. No one else knows, unless it’s Olliver. From the way you raised your left hand to strike him last night, I guessed that it was weighted. I didn’t mention it even to him and I don’t know if he made the same deduction or not.”

  “Good. Since we’ve time to kill, how about telling me what the job is that Olliver wants me to do?”

  Judeth shook her head. “He wants to explain it to you himself. Besides, I’ve something more important to brief you on. I’ve got to tell you how to act after I leave you.”

  “I know. Meek like a rabbit.”

  “I don’t mean that. First, you’re supposed to be unconscious when I leave you here. The guards come here and unstrap you, and—”

  “Give me another beating in the process?”

  “No. You’re no longer the person who killed one of them and they have nothing against you. You’re starting fresh, Crag. They put you on a stretcher and take you by elevator to a hospital room on the twentieth level. They’ll put you on a bed there and leave you to come out of it.”

  “How long am I supposed to be unconscious?”

  “At least an hour. Some of them take longer.”

  “And then?”

  “Pretend to wake up, and be confused. Remember, you don’t know who you are or how you got there. Sit on the edge of the bed a while, as though you’re trying to orient yourself.”

  “And then?”

  “You’ll get instructions. A nurse will be keeping an eye on you from time to time through the door. When she sees you’re awake, she’ll take you to see someone who’ll explain things to you and tell you what to do.”

  “And what attitude do I take?”

  “You’re puzzled, and it’s all right for you to ask questions. But be polite. Accept and follow whatever suggestions he makes. You’ll be all right from there.”

  “But when and how shall I get in touch with Olliver?”

  “Don’t worry about it. That will be taken care of. The less you know what to expect afterward the more naturally you’ll be able to act the role. Just remember to watch your tongue—and your temper—every minute. Every second.

  “All right. Crag—be careful. Now pretend unconsciousness. Close your eyes and breathe deeply and slowly.”

  Distrustful of women as he was, Crag might have expected it, but he didn’t. So the kiss on his lips jarred him when it happened.

 
But he sat rigidly, not moving and not speaking, hating her so greatly that he would not give her the satisfaction of being cursed at, as she no doubt expected. Sat rigidly while he heard her walk to the main switch of the psycher machine and shut it off. Heard her, in the deep silence left by the sudden stoppage of the humming of the machine, walk to the door, open and close it.

  Only when, minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching the door did he remember to force himself to slump into relaxation and breathe slowly and deeply.

  By their footsteps and by the way they handled him, he could tell that there were only two guards this time. They weren’t afraid of him anymore, and they didn’t beat him. They lifted him out of the chair and onto a stretcher. He was carried for a while, felt the sensation of an elevator descent, was carried again and then rolled from the stretcher onto a bed.

  “The one that killed Koster,” he heard one of the guards say to the other. “Shall we give him something to remember us by?”

  “Nah,” the other voice said. “What’s the use? He ain’t the same guy now. Even if he felt it he wouldn’t know what it was for.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Come on. Remember what’s on tonight. Save your strength.”

  He heard them leave.

  Already the psyching he was supposed to have had was beginning to pay off. He wondered how he was going to judge time—they’d taken his wrist watch, of course, along with his other possessions—until he heard a clock strike. That made it simple; all he had to do was wait until he heard it strike the next hour and it would be time for him to come back to consciousness.

  Because of the pain in his muscles from the two beatings he’d had, it was hard to lie motionless that long, but Crag forced himself to do it. He opened his eyes then and as soon as he was sure he was alone in the room sat up on the edge of the bed. He was rubbing his shoulders gently when suddenly there was a nurse standing in the doorway.

  “Feeling better?” she asked brightly.

  Crag stood up, and winced. “I’m sore all over,” he said. “What happened? Was I in an accident? How’d I get here?”

  She smiled. “Everything’s all right—and it’ll all be explained to you. Or would you rather lie down again and rest some more first?”

  He made his voice hesitant. “I’m—okay, I guess.” He looked down at himself and pretended to be surprised. “Aren’t these—prison clothes? Am I—?”

  “Everything’s all right. You’re ready to leave as soon as things have been explained to you. And as for clothes—” She came on into the room and opened the door of a small closet. A shirt and slacks hung on hangers and a pair of sandals was on the floor under them. “—these are what you’re to wear. If you want any help changing—”

  “No,” Crag said firmly. “But if there’s a shower I could use, it might help this soreness.”

  She nodded and pointed to another door. “Right in there. You’re sure you don’t want help, for anything?”

  Crag told her that he was sure, and waited until she had left. Then he closed the door to the hallway and took a long shower, first as hot as he could stand it and then cold. Then he put on the clothes that had been provided for him, then opened the door to the hallway and looked out, pretending uncertainty.

  The nurse was seated at a desk a dozen paces down the corridor. She had heard his door open and had looked up. She smiled again and beckoned and Crag walked over to the desk.

  “Feeling better?” she asked. “You’re looking much better.”

  “Feeling fine,” Crag told her. “But I’ve been trying to remember things, and I can’t even remember who I am or—anything.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything is all right. I’ll take you to Dr. Gray now.”

  She stood up and moved down the hall and Crag followed her. She showed him into a small waiting room and told him the doctor would see him in a few minutes. And in a few minutes a man with a round moon face opened an inner door and said, “Come in, Crag.” Crag followed him into the office and took the offered chair.

  He said, “You called me Crag. Is that my name, Doctor?”

  “Yes. Will you have a cigarette, Crag?” Crag took one from the offered package, and the doctor leaned across the desk and held a lighter for him.

  “Your name is Crag,” he said, “unless you decide you want to change it. That will be your privilege if you so decide, after you’ve oriented yourself. You see, Crag, you were a criminal and—to make you able to fit into society—it was necessary that your memory of yourself and of your crimes be erased from your mind.”

  “What kind of a criminal was I? What did I do?”

  “It’s better that I don’t answer that question for you, Crag. You should concentrate on the future and not on the past. Especially now, since the past no longer matters. Whatever crimes you committed are now off the books, forgotten. And you need feel no guilt for them because you are not the person who committed them, not any longer. You have a fresh start and you owe society nothing.”

  Crag nodded. “I see, Doctor.”

  The moonfaced man glanced at a card on the desk before him. “In one way you are fortunate. You have no living relatives, so there are no ties with the past whatsoever. In such cases, there are sometimes complications. But—” He cleared his throat and abandoned the sentence. “In another way, too, you are fortunate. You have a sponsor who offers you a much better and better paying job than most of our—ah—graduates start with. You will be a space pilot.”

  “Space pilot?” Crag didn’t have to pretend surprise at that. Maybe there was a bit too much surprise in his reaction, for the doctor looked at him sharply.

  “Yes,” he said, “for a private craft. You’re qualified; you had an A-rating license once. It was revoked, but reinstatement of any such license is automatic for any man who has gone through the psyching process. Unless the revocation was for incompetence, and yours wasn’t. You’ll take a short refresher course, naturally.”

  “What kind of a craft is it?”

  “Four passenger, semi-atomic Class J-14. And your employer, Crag, is a great man, a great man indeed. His name is Olliver and he is possibly the greatest statesman in the system. At least in my opinion. But you may feel very fortunate that he took an interest in you and applied for your services. Otherwise you’d have had to start your new life as—well, in one of the menial categories. We always have more applications for such employees than we can fill. But of course if you don’t want to go into space again, you’re perfectly free to choose. You’re a free man, Crag. You’re being offered that job, not ordered to take it.”

  “I’ll take it,” Crag said. And remembered to add, “Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  The moon face smiled meaninglessly. “Don’t thank me, thank Judge Olliver. You’ll have a room and your meals at his house, incidentally, so you won’t have to worry about looking for quarters. Here is his address, and ten dollars.” He handed a slip of paper and a bill across the desk. “Cab fare, unless you’d rather walk. No hurry about when you get there.”

  Crag stood up, put both pieces of paper into his pocket, and thanked the doctor again.

  Five minutes later, on the crowded sidewalk in front of the Judicial Building, he took a deep breath. He was free.

  And hungry, damned hungry. It wasn’t quite noon yet, but he’d already missed two meals in a row. Dinner last night because of his escape and recapture. Breakfast this morning, no doubt because for physiological reasons one was supposed to be psyched on an empty stomach. Either that or the guards had deliberately not fed him for the same reason they’d given him the beatings.

  Also he wanted a drink, several drinks. But ten dollars wouldn’t buy much of the kinds of liquor he wanted, whereas it would buy as big a lunch as he could eat, and one that would be a real contrast to the soggy synthetics that made up the bulk of prison fare. So lunch, at the best restaurant he could find, won.

  Afterwards, replete, he wanted a drink worse than before, and sat for a whi
le thinking of ways of raising a hundred or so for a binge before reporting to Olliver. But even the best of them involved a slight risk and was a risk worth taking now? He decided that it wasn’t; he could wait, at least until he learned the score.

  But still he was in no hurry to get to Olliver’s, so he rang for his waitress and asked her to bring the latest newstab with a second coffee.

  The newstab carried mention of his having been sentenced to the psycher but no details were given. They never were, on a psyching sentence; the legal theory was that a psyched man was entitled to a fresh start from scratch with everything against him, even fingerprint records, destroyed. Since he himself had forgotten his identity and his crime, society was required to do no less.

  He leafed through the rest of the newstab. There was nothing in it of interest to him. The usual politics and other crap.

  Suddenly he wanted to walk, to savor his freedom. And, as well, it would be good for his muscles sore from the beatings. He paid his bill and left.

  He took a roundabout course to Olliver’s, partly to make the walk longer and partly to avoid the Martian Quarter, the spacemen’s vice district. Too easy to get into trouble there, and much as he enjoyed trouble, this wasn’t the time for it.

  He walked fast, but with the catlike grace and easy balance of one used to a dozen variations of gravity. He thought about a million dollars.

  A cool million dollars for one job.

  The doorman at Olliver’s front door was an ugly, a surly sadist, as were most guards, but he nodded politely to Crag and opened the door for him, told him the judge was waiting for him in the study. Crag followed the hall and let himself into the room he’d been in the evening before. He was glad to see Olliver was alone, again seated behind the massive desk.

  Olliver said, “Sit down, Crag. You took your time getting here.”

  Crag didn’t answer. “You’ve eaten?” Olliver asked, and Crag nodded.