Badge of Infamy E-Book

Lester Del Rey

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 159

Beschreibung

In the future, powerful lobbies control much of society. One of the most powerful is the medical lobby, which—following a pandemic that spread across Earth—now requires that medicinal care can only practiced by authorized lobby members and only in approved lobby facilities.

Daniel Feldman, a former doctor, broke the medical lobby's rules and had cannot practive medicine anymore. To escape the shame, he travels to Mars, which has become a modern

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

BADGE OF INFAMY

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

BADGE OF INFAMY

Lester del Rey

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Introduction © 2022 by John Betancourt.

Copyright © 1963 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.

Copyright © 1957 by Renown Publications, Inc.

A shorter and earlier version of this story appeared

in Satellite Science Fiction for June, 1957.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

Lester del Rey (1915-1993) was one of the most successful of the writer-editors produced by the science fiction field during its “golden age.” He published science fiction and fantasy in all of the leading science fiction magazines, including several now-classic tales, like “Helen O’Loy.” He edited books and magazines (with his wife, Judy-Lynn del Rey). And together with Judy-Lynn, he founded Del Rey Books, which continues to this day. As an editor, he discovered and developed many writers, including Terry Brooks, Lawrence Watt-Evans, and many more.

Few figures of his generation had such a lasting impact on the field. In fact, I can only think of two others: John W. Campbell (who wrote and edited Astounding Science Fiction magazine. where he almost single-handedly created science fiction’s Golden Age), and Donald A. Wollheim (another writer-editor, who wrote books and short stories, edited magazines, and brought into book form many of the science fiction’s classics—first at Ace Books, where he ran their science fiction line for years, then at DAW Books, whose name bears his initials and continues to this day).

Del Rey gave largely invented details of his family and childhood. He often told people his real name was Ramon Felipe Alvarez-del Rey (and sometimes even Ramon Felipe San Juan Mario Silvio Enrico Smith Heartcourt-Brace Sierra y Alvarez del Rey y de los Uerdes). He even claimed his family had died in a car crash in 1935. However, none of it turned out to be true. After his death, his sister confirmed that his real name was, in fact, Leonard Knapp. His entire life story had been fabricated and fictionalized, much like a character in a science fiction story.

In 2014, I noticed that most of his work had become unavailable. This sometimes happens when there isn’t an agent actively pushing to keep a writer’s books available. Even his namesake Del Rey Books had allowed his work to go out of print

I contacted his heirs, purchased the del Rey copyrights, and have been working diligently to bring his fiction back into print through my publishing company, Wildside Press. For a while, I thought we had a deal for a major reissue program through Del Rey Books for its 50th Anniversary, but they ultimately refused to commit to it, so I ended up taking back all the rights to his classic novels and short story collections. Today, some of these works are in print from Wildside Press, NESFA Press (several mammoth hardcover collections of his short stories), and Thunderchild Publishing (his young adult novels). Many more are forthcoming.

If this is your first experience reading Lester del Rey’s fiction, I hope you enjoy it and come back for many more. He was an excellent writers and well deserves rediscovery by fans today.

—John Betancourt

CHAPTER 1

Pariah

The air of the city’s cheapest flophouse was thick with the smells of harsh antiseptic and unwashed bodies. The early Christmas snowstorm had driven in every bum who could steal or beg the price of admission, and the long rows of cots were filled with fully clothed figures. Those who could afford the extra dime were huddled under thin, grimy blankets.

The pariah who had been Dr. Daniel Feldman enjoyed no such luxury. He tossed fitfully on a bare cot, bringing his face into the dim light. It had been a handsome face, but now the black stubble of beard lay over gaunt features and sunken cheeks. He looked ten years older than his scant thirty-two, and there were the beginnings of a snarl at the corners of his mouth. Clothes that had once been expensive were wrinkled and covered with grime that no amount of cleaning could remove. His tall, thin body was awkwardly curled up in a vain effort to conserve heat and one of his hands instinctively clutched at his tiny bag of possessions.

He stirred again, and suddenly jerked upright with a protest already forming on his lips. The ugly surroundings registered on his eyes, and he stared suspiciously at the other cots. But there was no sign that anyone had been trying to rob him of his bindle or the precious bag of cheap tobacco.

He started to relax back onto the couch when a sound caught his attention, even over the snoring of the others. It was a low wail, the sound of a man who can no longer control himself.

Feldman swung to the cot on his left as the moan hacked off. The man there was well fed and clean-shaven, but his face was gray with sickness. He was writhing and clutching his stomach, arching his back against the misery inside him.

“Space-stomach?” Feldman diagnosed.

He had no need of the weak answering nod. He’d treated such cases several times in the past. The disease was usually caused by the absence of gravity out in space, but it could be brought on later from abuse of the weakened internal organs, such as the intake of too much bad liquor. The man must have been frequenting the wrong space-front bars.

Now he was obviously dying. Violent peristaltic contractions seemed to be tearing the intestines out of him, and the paroxysms were coming faster. His eyes darted to Feldman’s tobacco sack and there was animal appeal in them.

Feldman hesitated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held the cigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smoked the remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungs and sicken his empty stomach. Then he shrugged and threaded his way through the narrow aisles toward the attendant.

“Better get a doctor,” he said bitterly, when the young punk looked up at him. “You’ve got a man dying of space-stomach on 214.”

The sneer on the kid’s face deepened. “Yeah? We don’t pay for doctors every time some wino wants to throw up. Forget it and get back where you belong, bo.”

“You’ll have a corpse on your hands in an hour,” Feldman insisted. “I know space-stomach, damn it.”

The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. “Go treat yourself if you wanta play doctor. Go on, scram—before I toss you out in the snow!”

One of Feldman’s white-knuckled hands reached for the attendant. Then he caught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally faced the kid again. “I’m not fooling. And I was a doctor,” he stated. “My name is Daniel Feldman.”

The attendant nodded absently, until the words finally penetrated. He looked up, studied Feldman with surprised curiosity and growing contempt, and reached for the phone. “Gimme Medical Directory,” he muttered.

Feldman felt the kid’s eyes on his back as he stumbled through the aisles to his cot again. He slumped down, rolling another cigarette in hands that shook. The sick man was approaching delirium now, and the moans were mixed with weak whining sounds of fear. Other men had wakened and were watching, but nobody made a move to help.

The retching and writhing of the sick man had begun to weaken, but it was still not too late to save him. Hot water and skillful massage could interrupt the paroxysms. In fifteen minutes, Feldman could have stopped the attack completely.

He found his feet on the floor and his hands already reaching out. Savagely he pulled himself back. Sure, he could save the man—and wind up in the gas chamber! There’d be no mercy for his second offense against Lobby laws. If the spaceman lived, Feldman might get off with a flogging—that was standard punishment for a pariah who stepped out of line. But with his luck, there would be a heart arrest and another juicy story for the papers.

Idealism! The Medical Lobby made a lot out of the word. But it wasn’t for him. A pariah had no business thinking of others.

As Feldman sat there staring, the spaceman grew quieter. Sometimes, even at this stage, massage could help. It was harder without liberal supplies of hot water, but the massage was the really important treatment. It was the trembling of Feldman’s hands that stopped him. He no longer had the strength or the certainty to make the massage effective.

He was glaring at his hands in self-disgust when the legal doctor arrived. The man was old and tired. Probably he had been another idealist who had wound up defeated, content to leave things up to the established procedures of the Medical Lobby. He looked it as he bent over the dying man.

The doctor turned back at last to the attendant. “Too late. The best I can do is ease his pain. The call should have been made half an hour earlier.”

He had obviously never handled space-stomach before. He administered a hypo that probably held narconal. Feldman watched, his guts tightening sympathetically for the shock that would be to the sick man. But at least it would shorten his sufferings. The final seizure lasted only a minute or so.

“Hopeless,” the doctor said. His eyes were clouded for a moment, and then he shrugged. “Well, I’ll make out a death certificate. Anyone here know his name?”

His eyes swung about the cots until they came to rest on Feldman. He frowned, and a twisted smile curved his lips.

“Feldman, isn’t it? You still look something like your pictures. Do you know the deceased?”

Feldman shook his head bitterly. “No. I don’t know his name. I don’t even know why he wasn’t cyanotic at the end, if it was space-stomach. Do you, doctor?”

The old man threw a startled glance at the corpse. Then he shrugged and nodded to the attendant. “Well, go through his things. If he still has a space ticket, I can get his name from that.”

The kid began pawing through the bag that had fallen from the cot. He dragged out a pair of shoes, half a bottle of cheap rum, a wallet and a bronze space ticket. He wasn’t quick enough with the wallet, and the doctor took it from him.

“Medical Lobby authorization. If he has any money, it covers my fee and the rest goes to his own Lobby.” There were several bills, all of large denominations. He turned the ticket over and began filling in the death certificate. “Arthur Billings. Space Lobby. Crewman. Cause of death, idiopathic gastroenteritis and delirium tremens.”

There had been no evidence of delirium tremens, but apparently the doctor felt he had scored a point. He tossed the space ticket toward the shoes, closed his bag, and prepared to leave.

“Hey, doc!” The attendant’s voice was indignant. “Hey, what about my reporting fee?”

The doctor stopped. He glanced at the kid, then toward Feldman, his face a mixture of speculation and dislike. He took a dollar bill from the wallet. “That’s right,” he admitted. “The fee for reporting a solvent case. Medical Lobby rules apply—even to a man who breaks them.”

The kid’s hand was out, but the doctor dropped the dollar onto Feldman’s cot. “There’s your fee, pariah.” He left, forcing the protesting attendant to precede him.

Feldman reached for the bill. It was blood money for letting a man die—but it meant cigarettes and food—or shelter for another night, if he could get a mission meal. He no longer could afford pride. Grimly, he pocketed the bill, staring at the face of the dead man. It looked back sightlessly, now showing a faint speckling of tiny dots. They caught Feldman’s eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on the skin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have been cyanosis….

He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn’t worry about anything now but getting away from here before the attendant made trouble. His eyes rested on the shoes of the dead man—sturdy boots that would last for another year. They could do the corpse no good; someone else would steal them if he didn’t. But he hesitated, cursing himself.

The right boot fitted better than he could have expected, but something got in the way as he tried to put the left one on. His fingers found the bronze ticket. He turned it over, considering it. He wasn’t ready to fraud his identity for what he’d heard of life on the spaceships, yet. But he shoved it into his pocket and finished lacing the boots.

Outside, the snow was still falling, but it had turned to slush, and the sidewalk was soggy underfoot. There was going to be no work shoveling snow, he realized. This would melt before the day was over. Feldman hunched the suitcoat up, shivering as the cold bit into him. The boots felt good, though; if he’d had socks, they would have been completely comfortable.

He passed a cheap restaurant, and the smell of the synthetics set his stomach churning. It had been two days since his last real meal, and the dollar burned in his pocket. But he had to wait. There was a fair chance this early that he could scavenge something edible.

He shuffled on. After a while, the cold bothered him less, and he passed through the hunger spell. He rolled another smoke and sucked at it, hardly thinking. It was better that way.

It was much later when the big caduceus set into the sidewalk snapped him back to awareness of where he’d traveled. His undirected feet had led him much too far uptown, following old habits. This was the Medical Lobby building, where he’d spent more than enough time, including three weeks in custody before they stripped him of all rank and status.

His eyes wandered to the ornate entrance where he’d first emerged as a pariah. He’d meant to walk down those steps as if he were still a man. But each step had drained his resolution, until he’d finally covered his face and slunk off, knowing himself for what the world had branded him.

He stood there now, staring at the smug young medical politicians and the tired old general practitioners filing in and out. One of the latter halted, fumbled in his pocket and drew out a quarter.

“Merry Christmas!” he said dully.

Feldman fingered the coin. Then he saw a gray Medical policeman watching him, and he knew it was time to move on. Sooner or later, someone would recognize him here.

He clutched the quarter and turned to look for a coffee shop that sold the synthetics to which his metabolism had been switched. No shop would serve him here, but he could buy coffee and a piece of cake to take out.

A flurry of motion registered from the corner of his eye, and he glanced back.

“Taxi! Taxi!”

The girl rushing down the steps had a clear soprano voice, cultured and commanding. The gray Medical uniform seemed molded to her shapely figure and her red hair glistened in the lights of the street. Her snub nose and determined mouth weren’t the current fashion, but nobody stopped to think of fashions when they saw her. She didn’t have to be the daughter of the president of Medical Lobby to rule.

It was Chris—Chris Feldman once, and now Chris Ryan again.

Feldman swung toward a cab. For a moment, his attitude was automatic and assured, and the cab stopped before the driver noticed his clothes. He picked up the bag Chris dropped and swung it onto the front seat. She was fumbling in her change purse as he turned back to shut the door.

“Thank you, my good man,” she said. She could be gracious, even to a pariah, when his homage suited her. She dropped two quarters into his hand, raising her eyes.

Recognition flowed into them, followed by icy shock. She yanked the cab door shut and shouted something to the driver. The cab took off with a rush that left Feldman in a backwash of slush and mud.

He glanced down at the coins in his hand. It was his lucky day, he thought bitterly.

He moved across the street and away, not bothering about the squeal of brakes and the honking horns. He looked back only once, toward the glowing sign that topped the building. Your health is our business! Then the great symbol of the health business faded behind him, and he stumbled on, sucking incessantly at the cigarettes he rolled. One hand clutched the bronze badge belonging to the dead man and his stolen boots drove onward through the melting snow.

It was Christmas in the year 2100 on the protectorate of Earth.

CHAPTER 2

Lobby

Feldman had set his legs the problem of heading for the great spaceport and escape from Earth, and he let them take him without further guidance. His mind was wrapped up in a whirl of the past—his past and that of the whole planet. Both pasts had in common the growth and sudden ruin of idealism.

Idealism! Throughout history, some men had sought the ideal, and most had called it freedom. Only fools expected absolute freedom, but wise men dreamed up many systems of relative freedom, including democracy. They had tried that in America, as the last fling of the dream. It had been a good attempt, too.

The men who drew the Constitution had been pretty practical dreamers. They came to their task after a bitter war and a worse period of wild chaos, and they had learned where idealism stopped and idiocy began. They set up a republic with all the elements of democracy that they considered safe. It had worked well enough to make America the number one power of the world. But the men who followed the framers of the new plan were a different sort, without the knowledge of practical limits.

The privileges their ancestors had earned in blood and care became automatic rights. Practical men tried to explain that there were no such rights—that each generation had to pay for its rights with responsibility. That kind of talk didn’t get far. People wanted to hear about rights, not about duties.

They took the phrase that all men were created equal and left out the implied kicker that equality was in the sight of God and before the law. They wanted an equality with the greatest men without giving up their drive toward mediocrity, and they meant to have it. In a way, they got it.