Badge of Infamy

by Lester Del Rey

  IV

  Martian

  It was night when Feldman came to, and the temperature was droppingrapidly. He struggled to sit up through a fog of pain. Somewhere in hisbag, he should have an anodyne tablet that would kill any ache. Hefinally found the pill and swallowed it, fumbling with the aspirator lipopening.

  The aspirator meant life to him now, he suddenly realized. He twisted tostare at the tiny charge-indicator for the battery. It showedhalf-charge. Then he saw that someone had attached another batterybeside it. He puzzled briefly over it, but his immediate concern was forshelter.

  Apparently he was still where he had been knocked out. There was a lightcoming from the little station, and he headed toward that, fumbling forthe few quarters that represented his entire fortune.

  Maybe it would have been better if the tubemen had killed him. Batterieswere an absolute necessity here, food and shelter would be expensive,and he had no skills to earn his way. At most, he had only a day or soleft. But meantime, he had to find warmth before the cold killed him.

  The tiny restaurant in the station was still open, and the air was warminside. He pulled off the aspirator, shutting off the battery.

  The counterman didn't even glance up as he entered. Feldman gazed at theprinted menu and flinched.

  "Soup," he ordered. It was the cheapest item he could find.

  The counterman stared at him, obviously spotting his Earth origin. "Youadjusted to synthetics?"

  Feldman nodded. Earth operated on a mixed diet, with synthetics for allwho couldn't afford the natural foods there. But Mars was all synthetic.Many of the chemicals in food could exist in either of two forms, orisomers; they were chemically alike, but differently crystallized.Sometimes either form was digestible, but frequently the body could useonly the isomer to which it was adjusted.

  Martian plants produced different isomers from those on Earth. Since thesynthetic foods turned out to be Mars-normal, that was probably the morenatural form. Research designed to let the early colonists live offnative food here had turned up an enzyme that enabled the body to handleeither isomer. In a few weeks of eating Martian or synthetic food, thebody adapted; without more enzyme, it lost its power to handleEarth-normal food.

  The cheapness of synthetics and the discovery that many diseases commonto Earth would not attack Mars-normal bodies led to the wide use ofsynthetics on Earth. No pariah could have been expected to affordEarth-normal.

  Feldman finished the soup, and found a cigarette that was smokable. "Anyobjections if I sit in the waiting room?"

  He'd expected a rejection, but the counterman only shrugged. The waitingroom was almost dark and the air was chilly, but there was normalpressure. He found a bench and slumped onto it, lighting his cigarette.He'd miss the smokes--but probably not for long. He finished thecigarette reluctantly and sat huddled on the bench, waiting for morning.

  The airlock opened later, and feet sounded on the boards of thewaiting-room floor, but he didn't look up until a thin beam of light hithim. Then he sighed and nodded. The shoes, made of some odd fiber,didn't look like those of a cop, but this was Mars. He could see only ahulking shadow behind the light.

  "You the man who was a medical doctor?" The voice was dry and old.

  "Yeah," Feldman answered. "Once."

  "Good. Thought that space crewman was just lying drunk at first. Comealong, Doc."

  "Why?" It didn't matter, but if they wanted him to move on, they'd haveto push a little harder.

  The light swung up to show the other. He was the shade of old leatherwith a bleached patch of sandy hair and the deepest gray eyes Feldmanhad ever seen. It was a face that could have belonged to a countrystorekeeper in New England, with the same hint of dry humor. The man wasdressed in padded levis and a leather jacket of unguessable age. Hisaspirator seemed worn and patched, and one big hand fumbled with it.

  "Because we're friends, Doc," the voice drawled at him. "Because youmight as well come with us as sit here. Maybe we have a job for you."

  Feldman shrugged and stood up. If the man was a Lobby policeman, he wasdifferent from the usual kind. Nothing could be worse than the presentprospects.

  They went out through the doors of the waiting room toward a rattletrapvehicle. It looked something like a cross between a schoolboy's jalopyand a scaled-down army tank of former times. The treads were caterpillarstyle, and the stubby body was completely enclosed. A tiny airlockstuck out from the rear.

  Two men were inside, both bearded. The old man grinned at them. "Mark,Lou, meet Doc Feldman. Sit, Doc. I'm Jake Mullens, and you might say wewere farmers."

  The motor started with a wheeze. The tractor swung about and beganheading away from Southport toward the desert dunes. It shook andrattled, but it seemed to make good time.

  "I don't know anything about farming," Feldman protested.

  Jake shrugged. "No, of course not. Couple of our friends heard about youwhere a spaceman was getting drunk and tipped us off. We know who youare. Here, try a bracky?"

  Feldman took what seemed to be a cigarette and studied it doubtfully. Itwas coarse and fibrous inside, with a thin, hard shell that seemed to bea natural growth, as if it had been chopped from some vine. He lightedit, not knowing what to expect. Then he coughed as the bitter, rancidsmoke burned at his throat. He started to throw it down, and hesitated.Jake was smoking one, and it had killed the craving for tobacco almostinstantly.

  "Some like 'em, most don't," Jake said. "They won't hurt you. Look--seethat? Old Martian ruins. Built by some race a million years ago. Onlyhalf a dozen on Mars."

  It was only a clump of weathered stone buildings in the light from thetractor, and Feldman had seen better in the stereo shots. It wasinteresting only because it connected with the legendary Martian race,like the canals that showed from space but could not be seen on thesurface of the planet.

  Feldman waited for the other to go on, but Jake was silent. Finally, heground out the butt of the weed. "Okay, Jake. What do you want with me?"

  "Consultation, maybe. Ever hear of herb doctors? I'm one of them."

  Feldman knew that the Lobby permitted some leniency here, due to thescarcity of real medical help. There was only one decent hospital atNorthport, on the opposite side of the planet.

  Jake sighed and reached for another bracky weed. "Yeah, I'm pretty goodwith herbs. But I got a sick village on my hands and I can't handle it.We can't all mortgage our work to pay for a trip to Northport.Southport's all messed up while the new she-doctor gets her metabolismchanged. Maybe the old guy there would have helped, but he died a couplemonths ago. So it looks like you're our only hope."

  "Then you have no hope," Feldman told him sickly. "I'm a pariah, Jake. Ican't do a thing for you."

  "We heard about your argument with the Lobby. News reaches Mars. Butthese are mighty sick people, Doc."

  Feldman shook his head. "Better take me back. I'm not allowed topractice medicine. The charge would be first-degree murder if anythinghappened."

  Lou leaned forward. "Shall I talk to him, Jake?"

  The old man grimaced. "Time enough. Let him see what we got first."

  Sand howled against the windshield and the tractor bumped and surgedalong. Feldman took another of the weeds and tried to estimate theircourse. But he had no idea where they were when the tractor finallystopped. There was a village of small huts that seemed to be merelyentrances to living quarters dug under the surface. They led him intoone and through a tunnel into a large room filled with simple cots andthe unhappy sounds of sick people.

  Two women were disconsolately trying to attend to the half-dozensick--four children and two adults. Their faces brightened as they sawJake, then fell. "Eb and Tilda died," they reported.

  Feldman looked at the two figures under the sheets and whistled. Thesame black specks he had seen on the face of Billings covered the skinsof the two old people who had died.

  "Funny," Jake said slowly. "They didn't quite act like the others andthey sure died mighty fast. Darn it, I had it figur
ed for that stuff inthe book. Infantile paralysis. How about it, Doc? Sort of like a cold,stiff sore neck."

  It was clearly polio--one of the diseases that could attack Mars-normalflesh. Feldman nodded at the symptoms, staring at the sick kids. Heshrugged, finally. "There's a cure for it, but I don't have the serum.Neither do you, or you wouldn't have brought me here. I couldn't help ifI wanted to."

  "That old book didn't list a cure," Jake told him. "But it said the kidsdidn't have to be crippled. There was something about a Kenny treatment.Doc, does the stuff really cripple for life?"

  Feldman saw one of the boys flinch. He dropped his eyes, remembering theLobby's efficient spy service on Earth and wondering what it was likehere. But he knew the outcome.

  "Damn you, Jake!"

  Jake chuckled. "Thought you would. We sure appreciate it. Just tell uswhat to do, Doc."

  Feldman began writing down his requirements, trying to remember thedetails of the treatment. Exercise, hot compresses, massage. It wascoming back to him. He'd have to do it himself, of course, to get thefeel of it. He couldn't explain it well enough. But he couldn't turn hisback on the kids, either.

  "Maybe I can help," he said doubtfully as he moved toward a cot.

  "No, Doc." Jake's voice wasn't amused any longer, and he held theyounger man back. "You're doing us a favor, and I'll be darned if I'lllet you stick your neck out too far. You can't treat 'em yourself. Marsis tougher than Earth. You should live under Space Lobby _and_ MedicalLobby here a while. Oh, maybe they don't mind a few fools like me beingherb doctors, but they'd sure hate to have a man who can do realmedicine outside their hands. You let me do it, or get in the tractorand I'll have Lou drive you back. Once you start in here, there'll be nostopping. Believe me."

  Feldman looked at him, seeing the colonials around him for the firsttime as people. It had been a long time since he'd been treated as afellow human by anyone.

  Jake was right, he knew. Once he put his hand to the bandage, eventuallythere'd be no turning back from the scalpel. These people needed medicalhelp too desperately. Eventually, the news would spread, and the Lobbypolice would come for him. Chris couldn't afford to shield him. In fact,he was sure now that she'd hunt him night and day.

  "Don't be a fool, Jake," he ordered brusquely. He handed his list to oneof the women. "You'll have to learn to do what I do," he told the peoplethere. "You'll have to work like fools for weeks. But there won't bemany crippled children. I can promise that much!"

  He blinked sharply at the sudden hope in their eyes. But his mind wenton wondering how long it would be before the inevitable would catch upwith him. With luck, maybe a few months. But he hadn't been blessed withany superabundance of luck. It would probably be less time than hethought.