Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol XII

by Various

  "No. It's death, gentlemen. As deadly as your ... ah, gallows."

  "We use the gas chamber," Halloran corrected him. His mouth twisted. "More humane, you know."

  There was brief quiet, then the warden said, "Well ... now that we've finished philosophizing, let's get back to the matter at hand. We can have everyone that's going ready to leave by seven tonight. Will that be satisfactory?"

  "It'll have to be," Knox grunted.

  "Thank you." Halloran reached for his phone, then dropped his hands on his desk. "I'd like to ask you a question," he said. "Perhaps it's presumptuous, but I'm rather curious about the ... er, last workings of our government. Tell me, don't you really have room for our inmates? You haven't told us how many ships you've built. Or how big they are."

  Lansing looked at Knox. The general flushed, then stared at the floor. Lansing shrugged tiredly.

  "Oh, we've plenty of room," he sighed. "But ... our orders are to take only those completely fit to build a new world. We've ... well, we have practiced a lot of euthanasia lately."

  "Judges," murmured Goldsmid.

  "If you had come sooner," there was no anger in Halloran's voice, "couldn't you have selected some of our people, those that I ... all of us know are ready for rehabilitation--even on another planet?"

  "Perhaps. But no one remembered there was a prison nearby."

  The warden looked at the rabbi. Goldsmid raised his heavy shoulders in an ancient Hebraic gesture.

  "That was always the trouble, wasn't it, Pete?" Halloran murmured. "People never remembered the prisons!"

  The telephone beside him shrilled loudly, urgently.

  * * * * *

  The inmate mopping the floor of Condemned Row's single corridor slowed in front of Bert Doyle's cell. Doyle was slated for a ride down the elevator that night to the death cell behind the gas chamber. At the moment, he was stretched out on his bunk, listening to the soft voice of Father Nelson.

  "Sorry to interrupt," the inmate said, "but I thought you'd like to know that all hell's busting loose down in the yard."

  Father Nelson looked up.

  Doyle, too, looked interested. "A riot?" he asked.

  "Yessiree, bob!"

  "Nonsense!" snapped the priest. "This prison doesn't have riots!"

  "Well, it's sure got one, now. 'Scuse me, Father, but it's the truth. The men grabbed four or five yard guards and the screws in the towers don't dare shoot!"

  He gave up all pretense of work and stood, leaning on his mop-handle, his rheumy old eyes glowing with a feverish excitement.

  Nelson stood up.

  "Will you excuse me, Bert?" he asked. "I'd better see if I can help the warden."

  Doyle, too, sat up, swung his feet to the steel floor, stood up and stretched. "Sure," he said. His hard face was pale but otherwise he seemed quite calm. "You've been a great help, Father." He looked quizzically at the old inmate. "You lying, Danny? Seems to me the boys have got nothing to beef about here."

  "Heh, they sure have now."

  "What?"

  "Well, I got this from a guy who got it from Vukich who heard it from Joe Mario. Seems there's a big-shot general and some kinda scientist in Mr. Halloran's office." He shifted his grip on the mop-handle. "You gents maybe won't believe this, but it's what Joe heard 'em say to the warden. Outside is all covered with radium and this general and this here scientist are goin' to Mars an' they want the warden to go along. Leavin' us behind, of course. That's what the boys are riotin' about."

  Bert Doyle burst into harsh laughter.

  "Danny! Danny!" he cried. "I've been predicting this! You've gone stir-bugs!"

  "Ain't neither!"

  "Just a moment, Bert," Nelson whispered. Aloud he said, "Dan, go call the guard for me, please." When the old man had shuffled out of earshot the priest said to the condemned man, "It could be true, Bert. By radium, he means radioactive material. And there's no reason spaceships can't get to Mars. We'd reached the Moon before the war started, you know."

  Doyle sank back on his bunk.

  "Well, I'll be damned!" he breathed.

  "Bert!"

  Doyle grinned sheepishly. "Force of habit." Then, more soberly, "So they're off to Mars, eh? Father, you better get down there and pick up your reservations!"

  "Don't be ridiculous!" The priest's voice softened and he patted the killer's shoulder. "I will go down and see what's what, Bert. And I'll be back just as soon as the men have quieted down. That is, if they are creating a disturbance."

  The footsteps of the approaching guard sounded loud in the corridor. Doyle frowned a little.

  "When you come back, Father, you'll tell me the truth? No kidding, now!"

  The guard stood in front of the door of heavy steel bars. Father Nelson looked down at the man on the bunk.

  "I'll tell you everything, Bert. I swear it."

  "Uh, Father?" the guard's voice was nervous--and embarrassed.

  "Yes, Perkins?"

  "I ... I can't let you out right now. Orders from the warden. Not a cell door opens till I hear from him direct."

  Doyle chuckled.

  "Might as well sit down, Father," he said, "and make yourself comfortable--"

  * * * * *

  "What will you do?" cried Lansing.

  "Go out and talk to them, of course," replied Halloran. He arose from his desk, a calm, unhurried man.

  "Look," growled Knox, "you get me through to the town. Some of our people are still there. I'll order out as many soldiers as you want. I'll see to it that they get here--on the double!"

  Halloran flushed. "Would it ease your conscience, general," he grated, "if you killed off my men instead of leaving them--behind! Now, you will please keep quiet. You'll be perfectly safe!"

  "What will we do with them, sir?" Court gestured at Lansing and Knox.

  Halloran strode from behind his desk to the opposite end of the room. As he twirled the dials of a wall safe he said, "They'll have to remain here, for now. The men have got between this building and the gate office." The safe swung open and he reached far inside and took out a submachine gun. "Here," he held the weapon out to Court. "If I don't come back, use this to get them to the gate office."

  "Didn't know you had an arsenal in here!" cried Slade.

  "No one else did, either, except Alfred. Now Doc, think you and Pete had better stay here."

  Slade and Goldsmid pulled themselves out of their chairs as one man. Their timing was perfect.

  "No, you don't, hero!" growled Slade.

  "Warden," Goldsmid said, "perhaps I could talk to the men--"

  The warden smiled and walked toward the door. There he stopped and said to Court, "Switch on the speaker system, Alfred. I'll take the portable mike from the next office. While I'm out there, get word to all custodial and operating personnel that they will be permitted to leave tonight. Meantime, I hope they will stay on their jobs. Better phone Mr. Tate, have someone try to locate Mr. Briggs, be sure and call Dr. Slade's staff."

  "Right, sir."

  The three men left the office. Court, the gun cradled under one arm, picked up the phone and spoke into it. His voice was a low, crisp monotone. After a while, he replaced the receiver and stood quiet, staring impassively at the others.

  "You might say the warden's career has been twenty years of futility," he muttered. Lansing and Knox felt he wasn't actually speaking to them. "Now me, I'm a screw of the old school. Hardboiled, they say. I never expected a thing from a con ... and cons have lied to him, politicians have broken their promises ... but the liars have loved him and the dumbest dope in the legislature has respected him."

  "Will he ... be all right?" Lansing asked.

  Court shrugged. "Who knows? You handled this very badly," he said dispassionately. "Five minutes after you stepped through the main gate every inmate in the place knew you were here and started wondering. Why didn't you write--make arrangements to see the warden outside?"

  "I'm sorry," Lansing said. "We know very little about p
risons."

  Court laughed shortly. "You'd better learn," he said grimly.

  "Anyway we can see what's going on?" rumbled Knox. "And how about that speaker business?"

  "There's a window in the next office. Come along."

  * * * * *

  They crouched at the window, the fat Knox whizzing a little, because Court had ordered them to keep out of sight of the rioters. They saw Halloran, Slade and Goldsmid at his heels, walking out into the small courtyard that lay between them and safety. Over the wall speaker came a sullen roar, something very like the ragged blast of a rocket whose timing is off. A few gray-clad men in the courtyard saw the approaching warden, surged toward him, screaming at their fellows in the big yard behind them.

  Halloran ignored the clutching hands. He held the mike up and they heard him say, "There's no point in my talking with you unless you will be quiet and listen." He paused. The roar slowly subsided into an angry mutter. "Thanks. That's better."

  Now, they could see Slade's head but both Halloran and the rabbi were hidden by the swirl of gray figures that swept around the three prison officials.

  "Now," the warden went on, "it seems that you have something to say to me. Good enough. But why didn't you send word through your council, instead of roughing up guards, damaging property, yelling your heads off and generally behaving like a bunch of spoiled brats. Go on, tell me! Why?"

  Someone's scream came clearly over the mike. "The world's coming to an end! They're leaving us here to die!"

  "Yeah!" the mike picked up another voice. "How about that?"

  Before the wordless, mindless roar could rise again, the warden barked, "Oh, hush up!" And they were quiet.

  "My God," breathed Lansing.

  "Now," Halloran's voice was easy, assured, "I want to make sure that all of you hear me. So, I'm coming out in the center of the yard. Rabbi Pete Goldsmid and Doc Slade insist on coming with me although," he chuckled, "I understand Squeaker Hanley's screaming for the doc to cut out his gall bladder." A few of the men laughed. "All right, here I come. And you fellows behind me, keep off the wire. I don't want this mike to go dead and have to yell my lungs out."

  They saw the eddy of men around him move slowly through the broken gate and out of their sight.

  "What will he tell them," muttered Knox.

  "Whatever--they'll believe it," Court said. The courtyard before them was now empty. He stared thoughtfully out the barred window, then said, "Think you could get to the gate office pretty soon, now--"

  "No!" snarled Knox. "I want to see what happens to that gutty so-and-so!"

  Lansing grinned nervously. "Somehow, captain, I feel it won't be necessary for us to sneak out of here."

  * * * * *

  They listened again while assorted thieves, murderers, rapists, men--save for an innocent few--whose hands were consistently raised against their fellows' peace and property, heard their jailor tell them that the end of their world, a world that many of them remembered but dimly, was coming to an end. The screaming broke out again when Halloran spoke of the Mars-bound ships, and, for a moment, the three in the office thought he had lost control. But the amplifiers prevailed and Halloran laughed and said, "Anyway, we're not going to Mars--"

  "You can go!"

  The man who yelled that was apparently very close to the warden within his view, for they heard him say: "Chrisman, you're a fool--as usual! Would I bother to come out here and talk to you if I could go?"

  That got them. That, they understood. If a guy didn't scram from a hot spot when he could ... well, then, he couldn't scram in the first place. So, the warden was stuck, just like they were.

  Later, perhaps, a few of them might figure out why.

  "Now, let's have no more interruptions," Halloran said. "I don't think there's any need to go. Neither does the doc, here, or the rabbi. We're all staying--because the desert to the south of us has stopped the spread of this dust and it seems it can't cross the rivers, either. So, we're safe enough."

  "But that's not true," groaned Lansing.

  Court glanced at him. "Would you tell them different?" he said coldly.

  "No--"

  Halloran said, "Well, that's that. Life is a little difficult outside and so the people out there want to try to get to Mars. Believe me, that's a trip I want someone else to make first. But if they think life will be easier on those deserts--why, let them go. But God help them--they'll need it."

  He paused. Knox tried to catch Lansing's eye, but the scientist's face was blank, unseeing.

  "What do we do?" This voice was not hysterical, just seriously questioning.

  "You should do darned well. Life should be easy enough for you. You've got your own farms, your livestock, laundry, hospital, shops--everything a man can need. So, take over and run things to suit yourselves."

  A unanimous gasp whistled over the speaker. Then, they all cried just one word.

  "Us?"

  "Why not? Don't you think you can?"

  Silence, broken by strange, wistful mutterings.

  "I'd suggest this," Halloran said. "Let's follow our normal routine tonight--no lock-ups, of course--and tomorrow, you fellows take over. I'll help you in any way I can. But it will be your job. Perhaps after breakfast tomorrow, you ought to have a mass meeting. Under the supervision of your council, I'd say. You can't keep going without some kind of order, you know."

  Again silence.

  "My God," whispered Lansing, "he makes it all sound so real."

  "Any questions?" Halloran asked.

  "Hey, warden! How about the dames?"

  "The ladies will join you tomorrow morning." He chuckled. "I imagine they'll be able to handle you all right!"

  A joyous roar.

  "However," Halloran raised his voice, "I'd like to remind you fellows that a successful community needs ... families!"

  There was a long quiet, then, broken finally by an inmate who asked, "Warden, how about the guys up on the Row?"

  "Well," Halloran's voice lost all humor, "you can start ripping out the gas chamber whenever you're ready to. I'll see that you get the tools."

  The swell of applause was so loud in the office that Court hastily turned down the speaker's volume.

  "All right," Halloran said when they had quieted down, "that's about it. You're free now, till supper-time. I'd suggest all of you start right now, thinking about your future--"

  * * * * *

  Outside the main gate, first Knox, then Lansing shook hands with the gray-faced warden.

  "Trucks'll be in town at seven for your people," Knox muttered. He gave a windy sigh. "It's all fouled up. As usual. Damn it, we need people like you, sir!"

  Lansing looked at Halloran for a long time, trying to see behind the mask of exhaustion. "I'm a mannerless fool," he said at last. "But Mr. Halloran, would you tell me what you're thinking? I mean, really thinking? Even if it's rough on us!"

  Halloran laughed softly. "I wasn't thinking about you at all, Dr. Lansing. I was--and am--regretting that what I told the men couldn't be the truth. It's too bad they'll have so short a time. It would be very interesting to see what they would do with--life."

  Knox scowled. "Seems like they haven't done much with it so far."

  "Come along, general," Lansing said quietly. "You don't understand. None of us do. We never did."

  THE END

  * * *

  Contents

  GEORGE LOVES GISTLA

  By James McKimmey, Jr.

  "Why don't you find yourself some nice little American girl," his father had often repeated. But George was on Venus ... and he loved pale green skin ... and globular heads and most of all, George loved Gistla.

  George Kenington was sixteen, and, as he told himself, someone who was sixteen knew more about love than someone who was, say, forty-two. Like his father, for instance. A whole lot more probably. When you were forty-two, you got narrow-minded and nervous and angry. You said this is this, and that is that, and there is nothing else. When someon
e thought and felt and talked that way, George thought bitterly, there was not enough room inside that person to know what it was like, loving a Venusian.

  But George knew. He knew very well.

  Her name was Gistla. She was not pretty in standards of American colonists. She had the pale greenish Venusian skin, and she was too short and rather thick. Her face, of course, was not an American face. It was the face of native Venus. Round and smooth, with the large lidless eyes. There were no visible ears and a lack of hair strengthened the globular look of her head.

  But she was a person. The beauty was inside of her. Did you have to point to a girl's face and say, "Here is where the nose should be, here is where the ears should be?" Did you have to measure the width between eyes and test the color of the skin? Did you have to check the size of the teeth and the existence of hair? Was all of this necessary to understand what was inside someone?

  George snapped a leaf from an overhanging vine and threw it angrily to the ground. He was walking along a thin path that led from the colony to the tangled hills beyond, where hues of red and yellow and purple reflected like bold sweeps of watercolor. In a moment he would see Gistla, and with the color before his eyes and the sweet perfume of the flowers in his lungs, he felt again the familiar rise of excitement.

  George had not always lived on Venus. The Colony was very new. By 2022, most of the Earth countries had sent colonizers to Mars. But as yet, in June of that year, Venus had been touched by only the sparsest invasion of American civilization. George had arrived just three years ago, when his father had been appointed Secretary of the colonizing unit.

  And that was the whole trouble, really. Father was the Secretary, Mother was the Secretary's wife, Sister was the daughter of the Secretary. Everybody was wrapped up in it. Except George.

  George loved Gistla.

  "Why don't you find yourself some nice little American girl?" his father had said. "Say like Henry Farrel's little daughter?"

  Henry Farrel's little daughter was a sweet sickening girl with a nasty temper and a nasty tongue. Her father was Governor of the Colony. She told you about it all the time.