by Isaac Asimov
Dr. Silvers said, "What is it, Space Ranger?"
"It is Benson's sample taker. It fits at the end of his food harpoon. Observe how it works."
The Space Ranger adjusted a small knob at one end. "Firing the harpoon." he said, "trips this safety catch. So! Now watch."
There was the faintest buzzing noise. It ended after five seconds, and the fore end of the sampler gaped open, remained so for a second, then closed.
"That's the way it's supposed to work," cried Benson. "I made no secret of it."
"No, you didn't," said the Space Ranger sternly. "You and Hennes had been quarreling for days over Williams. You hadn't the stomach to have him killed. At the very last you brought the harpoon with you to Williams' bedside to see if the sight of it would surprise him into some action that would give him away. It didn't, but Hennes would wait no longer, anyway. Zukis was sent in to kill him."
"But what's wrong with the sampler?" demanded Benson.
"Let me show its workings again. But this time, Dr. Silvers, please observe the side of the sampler toward yourself now."
Dr. Silvers leaned across the table, watching closely. Bigman, blaster out once more, divided his attention between Benson and Hennes. Makian was on his feet, leathery cheeks flushed.
Once again the sampler was set, once again the little mouth flew open, and this time, as they watched the neutral side indicated, a covering sliver of metal withdrew there as well, revealing a shallow depression that glistened gummily.
"There," said the Space Ranger, "you can see what happened. Each time Benson took a sample, a few grains of wheat, a piece of fruit, a leaf of lettuce was smeared with that colorless gum, a poisonous extract of Martian bacteria. It is a simple poison, no doubt, that is not affected by subsequent food processing and eventually turns up in a loaf of bread, a jar of jam, a can of baby food. It was a clever and diabolical trick."
Benson was beating on the table. "It's all a lie, a rotten lie!"
"Bigman," said the Space Ranger, "gag the man. Stand near him and don't let him move."
"Really," protested Dr. Silvers, "you're making a case, Space Ranger, but you must let the man defend himself."
"There is no time," said the Space Ranger, "and proof that will satisfy even you will be forthcoming quickly."
Bigman used his handkerchief as a gag. Benson struggled and then sat in sweating stillness as the butt of Bigman's blaster collided noisily with his skull.
"The next time," said Bigman, "it will be hard enough to knock you out; maybe fix you up with a concussion."
The Space Ranger rose. "You all suspected, or pretended to suspect, Bigman when I spoke of a man with an inferiority complex because he was small. There are more ways of being small than in size. Bigman compensates for his size by belligerence and loud assertion of his own opinions. The men here respect him because of this. Benson, however, living here on Mars among men of action finds himself despised as a 'college farmer,' ignored as a weakling, and looked down upon by men whom he considers much his inferiors. To be unable to compensate for this except by murder of the most cowardly sort is another and worse kind of smallness.
"But Benson is mentally sick. To get a confession out of him would be difficult; perhaps impossible. However, Hermes would do almost as well as a source of knowledge about the future activities of the poisoners. He could tell us exactly where in the Asteroids we could find his various henchmen. He could tell us where the supply of poison, for use at midnight tonight, is kept. He could tell us many things."
Hennes sneered. "I could tell you nothing, and I will tell you nothing. If you shoot Benson and myself right now, matters will proceed exactly as they would if we were alive. So do your worst."
"Would you talk," said the Space Ranger, "if we guaranteed your personal safety?"
"Who would believe in your guarantee?" said Hennes. "I'll stick to my story. I'm an innocent man. Killing us will do you no good."
"You realize that if you refuse to talk, millions of men, women, and children may die."
Hennes shrugged.
"Very well," said the Space Ranger. "I have been told something about the effects of the Martian poison Benson has developed. Once in the stomach, absorption is very quick; the nerves to the chest muscles are paralyzed; the victim can't breathe. It is painful strangulation stretched over five minutes. Of course that is when the poison has been introduced into the stomach."
The Space Ranger, as he spoke, drew from Ms pocket a small glass pellet. He opened the sampler and drew it across the gummed surface until the glitter of the glass had been obscured by a sticky coating.
"Now if," he said, "the poison were placed just within the lips, matters would be different. It would be absorbed much more slowly and would take effect much more gradually. Makian," he called suddenly, "there's the man who betrayed you, used your farm to organize the poisoning of men and the ruin of the farm syndicates. Grab his arms and pinion them."
The Space Ranger tossed a pinion upon the table.
Makian, with a cry of long-pent rage, threw himself on Hennes. For a moment wrath restored to him some of the strength of his youth and Hennes struggled in vain against him.
When Makian stepped away, Hennes was strapped to his chair, his arms drawn painfully behind and around its back, his wrists pinioned tightly.
Makian said between rasping pants, "After you talk, It will be my pleasure to take you apart with my ten fingers."
The Space Ranger circled the table now, approach-Ing Hennes slowly, the smeared glass pellet held in two fingers before him. Hennes shrank away. At the other end of the table Benson writhed desperately, and Bigman kicked him into stillness.
The Space Ranger pinched Hennes's lower lip and drew it out, exposing his teeth. Hennes tried to snap his head away, but the Space Ranger's fingers pinched together and Hennes let out a muffled scream.
The Space Ranger dropped the pellet in the space between lip and teeth.
"I believe it will take about ten minutes before you absorb enough poison through the mouth membranes to begin taking noticeable effect," said the Space Ranger. "If you agree to talk before then, we will remove the pellet and let you rinse your mouth. Otherwise, the poison will take effect slowly. Gradually it will become more and more difficult and painful to breathe, and finally, in about an hour, you will die of very slow strangulation. And if you do die, you will have accomplished nothing, because the demonstration will be very educational for Benson and we will proceed to sweat the truth out of him."
The perspiration trickled down Hennes's temples. He made choking noises in the back of his throat.
The Space Ranger waited patiently.
Hennes cried, "I'll talk. I'll talk. Take it out! Take it out!"
The words were muffled through his distorted lips, but their intent and the hideous terror in every line of his face were plain enough.
"Good! You had better take notes, Dr. Silvers."
It was three days before Dr. Silvers met David Starr again. He had had little sleep in that interval and he was tired, but not too tired to greet David gladly. Bigman, who had not left Silvers in all that interval, was equally effusive in his greetings.
"It worked," said Silvers. "You've heard about it, I'm sure. It worked unbelievably well."
"I know," said David, smiling. "The Space Ranger told me all about it."
"Then you've seen him since."
"Only for a moment or two."
"He disappeared almost immediately afterward. I mentioned him in my report; I had to, of course. But it certainly made me feel foolish. In any case, I have Bigman here and old Makian as witnesses."
"And myself," said David.
"Yes, of course. Well, it's over. We located the poison stores and cleaned out the Asteroids. There'll be two dozen men up for life sentences and Benson's work will actually be beneficial in the end. His experiments on Martian life were, in their way, revolutionary. It's possible a whole new series of antibiotics may be the final results of his atte
mpts to poison Earth into submission. If the poor fool had aimed at scientific eminence, he would have ended a great man. Thank Hennes's confession for stopping him."
David said, "That confession was carefully planned for. The Space Ranger had been working on him since the night before."
"Oh, well, I doubt that any human could have withstood the danger of poisoning that Hennes was subject to. In fact, what would have happened if Hennes had been really innocent? The chance the Space Ranger took was a big one."
"Not really. There was no poison involved. Benson knew that. Do you suppose Benson would have left his sampler in his laboratory smeared with poison as evidence against himself? Do you suppose he kept any poison where it might be found by accident?"
"But the poison on the pellet."
"… was simple gelatin, unfavored. Benson would have known it would be something like that. That's why the Space Ranger did not try to get a confession out of him. That's why he had him gagged, to prevent a warning. Hennes might have figured it out for himself, if he hadn't been in blind panic."
"Well, I'll be tossed out into Space," said Dr. Silvers blankly.
He was still rubbing his chin when he finally made his excuses and went off to bed.
David turned to Bigman.
"And what will you be doing now, Bigman?"
Bigman said, "Dr. Silvers has offered me a permanent job with the Council. But I don't think I'll take it."
"Why not?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Starr. I sort of figure on going with you, wherever you happen to be going after this."
"I'm just going to Earth," said David.
They were alone, yet Bigman looked cautiously over his shoulder before he spoke. "It seems to me you'll be going lots of places besides Earth-Space Ranger."
"What?"
"Sure. I knew that when I first saw you come in with all that light and smoke. That's why I didn't take,you serious when it looked as if you were accusing me of being the poisoner." His face was broken out in a giant grin.
"Do you know what you're talking about?"
"I sure do. I couldn't see your face, or the details of your costume, but you were wearing hip boots and you were the right height and build."
"Coincidence."
"Maybe. I couldn't see the design on the hip boots but I made out a little of them, the colors, for instance. And you're the only farmboy I ever heard of that was willing to wear simple black and white."
David Starr threw his head back and laughed. "You win. Do you really want to join forces with me?"
"I'd be proud to," said Bigman.
David held out his hand and the two shook.
"Together then," said David, "wherever we go."
About The Author
Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct the situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight.
Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of Biochemistry.
Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never looked back.
In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his future was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had begun his Foundation series.
What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 260 books, distributed through every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity is notorious.
He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous marriage, and lives in New York City.
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