by E. C. Tubb
John ignored him. He stared at Collins, and when he spoke his voice held an amused contempt. “I told you once, Collins, that I was neither stupid nor blind. When are you going to begin thinking for yourself? Has the lust for power blinded you to the obvious? Suppose Carl here gets his own way, what then? Kill off the old people—and destroy their hard-won experience. Refuse treatment to the scholars and thinkers—and breed a slave state of obedient workers. Destroy, by neglect if you like, the offshoots of the human race, the idealists, the dreamers, the weak-bodied but strong-hearted, the infants who are slow in developing, the women and boys who, while unable to dig a field, yet could carry within themselves the seeds of a successful mutation. Where do you stop, Collins? And most important of all—who is to choose?
“Who is to decide the ones to receive treatment? Carl? He will pick brainless brawn. You? You can’t. You have too much knowledge. You know that a spot on the skin can mean death while a shattered pelvis can be healed. Who is to judge? And what of the future? Eliminate the ailing and, as we are now, you have nothing but morons left. A few of us came from the cities; some of us are intelligent. The rest? Peasant stock. No harm in that, of course, but you know what will happen by intensive inbreeding. We shall multiply, yes, but into what? But all that is unimportant against the overriding question. Who is going to decide who shall live and who shall die?”
“We shall use common sense,” gritted Carl. The legs of his chair thumped against the floor as he jerked to his feet. “Enough talk. Are you going to co-operate or not?”
“I....” John broke off, staring towards the door as it slammed open and shut again. Fenshaw stood there, his face red and mottled, his eyes glazed, his lips writhing and flecked with foam. Fenshaw, raving drunk and semi-insane.
Fenshaw with a gun.
He snarled like an animal as he stared at them, the pistol firm in his hand, the knuckle of his trigger finger white as it pressed the curved metal.
“I heard you,” he said. “These walls are thin and I heard every damn’ word. You!” The gun swung towards Collins. “Sell John out, wouldn’t you? See him break his heart so that you can hang onto the tail of this....” The gun jabbed towards Carl. “This swollen-headed would-be dictator.”
“Put down that gun!” rapped Carl. “Put it down I say!”
“Go to hell!” Fenshaw grinned as he stared at the young man. “What’s the matter, sonny? Someone not doing as they’re told? Why don’t you drop a nice big bomb on them? You know, kill their women and kids to teach them a lesson. Well? Why don’t you?”
“He’s gone mad,” whispered Collins. “Stark, staring mad.”
“I heard that.” Fenshaw spat towards the young doctor. “Mad am I? Well, maybe am, but I’m not too mad to see what’s happening here. It’s the same old story, isn’t it? Do as I say—or else. We’ve lived by that rule for too long now, we’ve always lived by it, and look where it brought us. But it’s not going to happen again, sonny, and you know why? Because I don’t care if everyone dies. Because I don’t care if I die. Because I’m going to kill you.”
“No!” Carl backed away from the menace of the pistol, his face turning sickly white. “Janson! Help!”
“Your soldier-boy’s asleep,” said Fenshaw gently. “I rapped his skull with the butt of Sally here. Why do I call it Sally?” He frowned and shook his head. “Never mind, Sally’s as good a name as any. What was I talking about? Death. That’s it, death. Your death, you little swine you. Ready?”
“No!” Carl pressed back against the wall, his hand fumbling at the holster at his side. “You can’t! You mustn’t! You’re a doctor, you’re supposed to save life, not take it.”
“I’ve saved too many lives in the past, me and those like me. Remember, John? Remember all those fat statesmen with their ulcers and rotten hearts, their tumours and stinking kidneys? We kept them alive too long. We let them play with their toys when they should have been feeding the worms. No, Carl, my son. Not again.”
“For God’s sake stop him!” Carl dragged at the weapon at his side. “Help!”
“In the belly, Carl,” said Fenshaw lovingly. “Right in your stinking gut.”
They fired together, Carl jerking back the trigger of his machine pistol and holding it there as lead spouted from the muzzle. Fenshaw fired calmly, deliberately, once, twice, his heavy revolver bucking in his hand; then, slowly, a peculiar expression on his face, he sagged and fell.
In the silence Carl’s screams sounded startlingly loud.
“Fenshaw!” John sprang forward, staring down into the fading eyes of the dying man. “You fool!”
“No, John, not a fool, and anyway, I wanted to go.” He coughed, blood gushing from between his lips. “Something I must tell you. Sally....” He coughed again and John stooped lower.
“What about Sally?”
“She’s dying. Malignant tumour of the ovary. You’ve got to operate. She loves you, John. Loves you....”
“Fenshaw!!”
But Fenshaw was dead.
Collins looked up from where he stooped over a bloodstained figure on the cot, his face a twisted mask of worry.
“He’s in bad shape, John. We’ll have to operate if we’re to save his life.”
“Damage?”
“One slug ripped through his side, that isn’t too dangerous, but the other penetrated the stomach, and I think lodged in a kidney. Unless we get to work on him he’ll die.”
“I see.” John stared at the shelves surrounding the room and gestured to Collins to join him. “Look here.”
“Where? What’s the matter?”
“When Carl cut loose with his machine pistol he did more than kill Fenshaw. His stray bullets smashed most of our drug ampoules and, worse than that, he punctured the cans of ether. We’ve just about enough left for one long operation.”
“As long as there is enough.” Collins gasped with relief. “Carl gets it, of course.”
“Why, ‘of course’, Collins? Sally needs it, too. She’s suffering from a tumour which will kill her unless we can take it out.”
“Sally?” Collins blinked then bit his lips. “Is that true?”
“Yes. She admitted it and Fenshaw told me just before he died.”
“I see.” Collins stared down at his hands. “Look, John, I like Sally, you know that, but this thing is more important than personal likes or dislikes. Carl is needed. I know that Sally is needed, too, but Carl is indispensable. I’m not exaggerating when I say that, John. Now and again in the course of history a natural leader is born and Carl is such a man. He is strong enough to be ruthless, and he’s the only man who can set England back on its feet again. Unless Carl lives, John, there will be no hope for us. There isn’t another man in the community who could take his place. If he dies then we’ll revert back to anarchy and the beast.”
“What are you trying to say, Collins?”
“You’ve got to save Carl. You’ve got to!”
“And Sally?”
“Let’s be reasonable, John. Sally is too old to bear children now and, in that alone, she is disqualified. We must look to the future, John, not the past. Sally has had her life, but Carl can make life possible for generations yet to come.” He stepped forward, his hands extended in mute appeal. “I can’t operate, John, I haven’t the skill. You can. In your hands rests the destiny of England. Literally. Save Carl and the nation can recover; let him die and we revert to savagery. Need I tell you what to do?”
* * * *
After, when the thing was done and he had washed the stains from his hands and arms beneath the still-running faucet, he had time for regret. But, strangely, he felt none at all. The thing was done, his future decided and, as he dried his hands and walked towards the bed on which lay his patient, he felt a quickening anticipation.
He smiled and his smile was answered. He knelt and arms closed around his neck, arms which drew his head towards lips that had once been soft and would be so again.
He didn’t think
of Collins, of the man’s desperate pleadings and frenzied threats. He had made his decision and, as he kissed the woman he loved, he felt a strange peace.
After all, he wouldn’t be the first man to have thrown away a world for the love of a woman.
THE WONDERFUL DAY
When she awoke Melinda knew that it was going to be a wonderful day. She stretched between the cool, crisp sheets, relishing the pneumatic softness of the couch and watched the bright, morning sun paint shadow-pictures on the floor. It was spring, the air scented with the blossoming of life, the breeze a caress to newly opened buds and unfolding flowers. It was spring and the day was going to be wonderful but it would have been wonderful had it been winter with snow and ice and bitter cold. For today she was going to see John again.
Melinda smiled at the thought as she had been smiling ever since the news of the ship’s arrival. Two years away exploring the depths of space and now home again. Two weeks a bride, two years of loneliness, now she was to be a bride again. Impatience drove her from the bed and into the shower. Anticipation trembled her fingers as she washed and dried herself, donned a robe and applied cosmetics with painstaking care. The choice of clothes caused her some thought. Would a plain suit be too severe? A flimsy frock too flippant? Sentiment dictated that she should wear the dress in which she had been married but fashion warned her against it. Fashion and her own dislike of anything that reminded her of the furtive, almost shame-faced ceremony so long ago.
She decided on a simple dress, pastel green to go with her auburn hair, together with a minimum of accessories. For a long moment she stared down at the plain ring on her finger wondering whether to remove it. Defiantly she decided to leave it where it was. John had placed it there and she wasn’t ashamed of it. Besides, now that the flight was over, surely the need for secrecy had passed?
Breakfast was impossible. She was too excited to eat but forced herself to swallow some fruit juice and coffee. By the time she had finished it was time to leave for the spaceport and, making sure that she was as perfectly turned out as possible, Melinda left her apartment; and stepped into the street. Normally she would have taken a tube-car to the suburbs but this was a special occasion and the expense of a taxi was justified. Sitting in the soft comfort of the vehicle she forced herself to relax, to forget the passing miles and minutes each one of which was taking her closer and closer to John.
The receptionist at the space terminal was an old-young man, with a smooth face and expressionless eyes. He looked up as Melinda approached, almost smiled, then remembered his manners and became coldly polite.
“Yes?”
“I’ve called to see John Purlis,” said Melinda breathlessly. Now that the great moment was almost at hand she began to have her first doubts. Would John have changed? Would he still be in love with her? She frowned at the receptionist. “John Purlis,” she repeated. “One of the crew of the exploration ship which landed yesterday. I want to see him.”
“Yes, Miss.” His eyes dropped to the ring on her finger. “Madam.” Rapidly he tapped at the keyboard in front of him, looked at the screen. “Are you a relation?”
“Yes.”
“Sister? Sister-in-law? Cousin?” He continued before she could reply. “I’m afraid that the only visitors permitted are the parents or next-of-kin. Sorry.”
“You mean that I can’t see him?” Incredulity drained the blood from her head so that everything seemed to shimmer and be ringed with black. “But I must see him! I must!”
“I’m sorry, but normal visitors are not permitted.”
“Is he dead? Hurt?” Fear closed its grip about her throat as her imagination painted vivid pictures. She recovered herself with an effort. “I have a right to see him,” she said with a calmness that surprised even herself. “I am his wife.”
She could tell that the man simply refused to believe her.
* * * *
The doctor was very kind and very gentle. He held a flask of something beneath her nose and, after a while, spoke in his gentle voice.
“Better now?”
“I think so.” Melinda gripped her bag and took a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you for being so kind.”
“Think nothing of it.” He turned away and replaced the flask in a cabinet. “Were you telling the truth downstairs?”
“That I am married to John Purlis? Yes.”
“I see.” He sat down at his desk and smiled at her across its surface. “Pardon me for doubting you but we have had others make false claims of relationship. You have proof?”
“Of course.” Why she had carried her marriage certificate in her handbag for two years Melinda didn’t know. Probably because it had made John seem more close, almost as if it was a part of him. Slowly she took it from her bag and passed it the doctor. He looked at it, pursed his lips then, folding it, handed it back to her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Purlis. My name by the way is Fromach,” He rested the tips of his fingers together and looked at the steeple he had made. “Did John tell you why the marriage had to be kept a secret?”
“Yes.” Melinda tucked away the certificate. “He said that only single men would be allowed to join the crew of the expeditionary ship.”
“Did he tell you the reason?”
“No.” Melinda frowned. “At least I don’t think so. All he said was that promotion would be rapid for those who returned but that if you knew he was married you wouldn’t let him go.”
“That was true, and so you both conspired against us.”
“No!” The denial was instinctive. Marriage wasn’t conspiracy, not when you both loved each other and wanted each other for always. And two years had seemed such a long while to wait all because of a stupid rule. What difference did it make if a man was married or not? Looking at Fromach Melinda felt she should explain these things and then realized that explanation wasn’t necessary. The doctor seemed to be a man who would understand without her having to explain.
“Mrs. Purlis,” he said quietly. “I want you to be perfectly frank with me. Did you have any reason, other than infatuation, for marrying John?”
“It wasn’t infatuation,” she denied, then blushed as she realized what he was getting at. “No.”
“Are there any children?”
“No.”
“I see.” He made another steeple and looked at it as if it were very important. “Mrs. Purlis you are young and, if I may say so, very attractive. During the time John has been away you must have found other, shall we say diversions?”
“How dare you!” She jumped up, her face flaming, her lips trembling with anger. Fromach gestured her back to her seat.
“You misunderstand me,” he said gently. “I am not questioning your faithfulness. I asked only to determine just how deeply you feel about your marriage.” He smiled at her. “Many people, especially young people, marry in haste and repent at leisure. You have had two years in which to do your repenting.”
“I don’t repent marrying John.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that.”
“Sorry?” Melinda looked baffled. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain.” Fromach lowered his hands. “The crew of that ship were selected because they were expendable, No wives, no families, just themselves volunteering for a dangerous and difficult assignment. They went deep into space, out further than anyone has ever been before on a journey that lasted two years. Most returned. Some died and did not return. None returned just as they left.”
“John’s hurt,” said Melinda. “I just know he is.”
“He was hurt,” admitted Fromach. “He is better now.”
“I don’t believe you. If he was all right then why can’t I see him?”
“Later.” Fromach paused as if searching for words. “You are a normal young woman, Mrs. Purlis. I take it that you hope to have children. Am I right?”
“Of course. Every woman wants children.”
“John cannot give you children,” said the doctor quietly. “
None of the returned explorers will ever be able to father a child, the deep-space radiation has sterilized them.” He held up his hand as Melinda opened her mouth. “I know what you are going to say. You will adopt a child, but will it be the same? I doubt it, but in any case there is more to it than that. John was badly injured. With him you will never be able to live a normal life.”
“I don’t believe you.” Melinda clung to her memories of John, as he had been two years ago. She had loved him then, she loved him now, she would always love him no matter what others might say.
“You don’t understand,” said Fromach. “John was badly injured, the details are unimportant, but it took major surgery to save his life. Prosthetics helped, he can walk now, but—” He shook his head. “I have no wish to go into grisly details. But your husband is literally unrecognisable for the man he was.”
“No!” gasped Melinda. The singing was back in her ears and the shimmer and the ring of black. John, unrecognisable? A freak? A monster? John, the man she had waited for, for so long? The man she loved? She swallowed, dropped her handbag and stooped low to pick it up. The rush of blood to her head cured the faintness and, when she straightened, she became aware of what Fromach was saying.
“—in the light of everything, it would be best for you to divorce your husband.”
“No.”
“You refuse?” Fromach looked anxious. “I assure you that it would be for the best.”
“The best for who? You? John? Myself?” Melinda shook her head. “I’m sorry but I cannot see things your way. John is my husband, the man I love. If he is in trouble then he needs me. I must help him. I will help him.” She rose to her feet. “I know that you mean well, doctor, but you are wasting your time. I want to see my husband.”
To her surprise Fromach made no objection.
* * * *
Melinda found out why when he led her towards a sheet of one-way glass. It revealed a comfortable lounge filled with deep chairs, a bar, stacks of books, video games, and other electronic devices to while away the hours. The pictures on the walls were all of other-world scenes and there was an absence of glossy magazines with their penchant for exploiting the female body as a means of advertising. The occupants of the room were—horrible.
