Part 1

Colony of the Unfit

by MANFRED A. CARTER

Mars had become the prison planet for Earth's afflicted, for the Leaders had exiled them to a living death beneath its red surface. But the Leaders had erred in their cold-blooded calculations--Mars held a secret beyond their ken.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

John Greely looked at Hilda's freshly gloved, artificial hand, as she adjusted her note book to a clip concealed in the palm. The hand fascinated him horribly. Beauty should never be crippled. She sensed his morbid stare, but smiled and rose gracefully, saying, "O.K., Boss. Let's go."

She flashed bantering eyes at her editor, with a last pat of her heavily ringed right hand on the rich rolling waves of blonde hair that were always in place. The startling pale beauty of her young face was contrasted by glowing dark brown eyes. Theirs was a comfortable friendship, this of the young editor and his society staff and secretary, but a limited one. He said, gruffly, "Let me carry the raditype."

"No, you're the dignity, I'm the beast of burden. Come on, hurry! We've only five minutes to reach the district hospital."

John slipped on his transparent all-weather coat and helped Hilda with hers. His reddish brown hair flipped in the March wind as they stepped out from the _Daily Home Recorder_ building. His almost boyishly round cheeks glowed with color. Hilda liked the way his shoulders snapped up as he faced the cold. She liked the way he took her arm, but she must always be casual....

"Do you suppose it's just another rumor?" she asked, as they stepped into a low, cigar shaped car.

"Look like straight dope to me. The Universal News Service is pretty conservative."

"How could things have changed so while we were away? It doesn't seem like the same world. Those men in Washington must be mad."

"I know, Hilda, but perhaps we are the ones who are out of step. This is the day of directed evolution."

"But, John--how horrible, to take all those sick folks and banish them on a Space Tramp!"

John drove past the old wooden houses of their small city and then let out speed on the highway before he answered, "The Leader says that is what we should do--harden our emotions for the sake of a better race. You and I are in the minority. Those years on the Moon trip have left us out of date."

They were silent for a little while before she continued, "Do you suppose we really are in the minority? The people who listen in to our raditype service seem just about as they did before we went away. Their letters prove that. I saw an old lady's scrap book the other day, of her clippings. I read it through because I had been wondering how much of the printed recording was ever reread. Most people are content to glance at the screen when the news first comes on. She had saved the old type sentimental items, just as an old lady would have five or ten years ago."

"Yes, the small towns are slow to change. That's why _they_ hate the little news services like ours. Prepared news hastens the new day."

"Do you suppose they'll talk to us?"

"They'll have to," he said grimly, "with all those folks watching and listening in. I wonder what the patients think about the new idea--or if they know."

"Where do you think they will be sent? Why don't the authorities just put them to sleep with a lethal drug?"

"Search me, Honey. Well, here we are."

Their street roller drew up silently before a huge gray building in the open country and John turned the magnetic parking control. They stepped out from the grass-lined curb, and John pushed the moving sidewalk half-speed handle, sliding them quickly up to an entrance. It opened automatically and in a moment they were standing before a large silver reception screen.

A white haired doctor, in his long surgical gown, glowed rapidly into focus before them. His eyes darted at John like the incision of a lancet. "What's the press want this morning?"

"We'd like an interview on the Universe News story."

Hilda held her raditype transmitter open toward the screen, secure in the crook of her arm, while she made private stenographic notes on the pad. Every home in the Brownville Section, which happened to be tuned in, was seeing the Doctor and he suddenly realized it enough to smile slightly. He inwardly cursed the freedom of the press in small towns, but remarked with forced graciousness, "I'll have a nurse conduct you to the surgery. We can talk while I supervise some minor operations."

"Fine!"

* * * * *

They walked past the Mental Case Wards in silence. It had been fifty years since the most degenerate of these poor unfortunates had been allowed to vociferate their wild discords. Hypnosis and drugs had achieved permanent quiet at last, but there was still a low percentage of actual cures.

Beyond these wards they came to the surgical division, and presently sat with Dr. Henderson in a small circular screened room, where a dozen operations were simultaneously shown. He hardly glanced at them, but kept his eyes constantly on the moving screen before him, touching buttons occasionally before making some brief comment into the transmitter.

John ignored his seeming lack of attention. "What about this story that the Central Medical Division is moving all these patients out on a space ship?"

"Some wild rumor--nothing in it."

"Any objection to our taking a round of observation?"

"No, go ahead. Might as well do it now. We can finish the interview later. I want to concentrate on that brain section transfer. It's rather tricky."

They stepped into an observation car and slid slowly around the overhead track, looking down on crowded wards below.

"John! There _is_ something happening here. Look at the patients' faces. They're afraid."

"Does seem to be a lot of activity."

"Let's slide down into that convalescent ward and see what they have to say."

"O.K., Sister, but you know it is forbidden. We'll probably get thrown out and reported."

They had hardly stepped out of the slide when a group of white gowned orderlies came down the next corridor. Hilda saw them and whispered tensely. "Here! Sit in this wheel chair, and I'll visit you--Help me fold our coats so that you can sit on them."

John obeyed and lolled back in the chair, winking at her before he half closed his eyes.

The orderlies wheeled in a low carrier, piled high with transparent plastic overcoats, old fashioned sweaters, woolen mackinaws, and rubber raincoats--any sort of an outdated covering. Most of the patients in these district hospitals were poor, and largely living in the meager comforts of the early part of the century. They made no protest, but donned their variegated assortment of coverings and lined up obediently to march out.

"Let's go with them," Hilda whispered.

"Quick! Behind those screens and into the end of the line," he directed, "the press joins the army of decrepitude."

"John, there are hundreds of ambulance planes outside!"

"Got your transmitter on?"

"Yes, it's been on all the time."

A white faced man ahead of them began to struggle between two guards as they reached the open air. A male nurse, walking behind them, deftly thrust a large hypodermic into the patient's arm, while the orderlies held him and pushed back his sleeve. The rebellious one quieted and was carried into one of the planes.

There were a few other struggles of resistance. Here and there a patient ran a few yards before being caught and subdued. For the most part the unhappy crowd showed only a quiet despairing obedience.

John urged in a low worried tone, "Let's make a dash for our roller--this is no place for you."

"No, this is horrible--we must see it through. Pretend to be sick and go along."

"Don't be sentimental, Hilda. Get ready to run for it when we pass that wall." He took her right hand in his left and snapped off the raditype. "Now!"

She had no choice, but, as they ran around the corner of the wall, they crashed into a group of surgeons coming toward the planes.

"Hold them!" cried Dr. Henderson. "They've done damage enough already. Put them on a plane. Perhaps we can claim the first broadcast was an impersonation, if they are gone."

John broke one pair of spectacles and started one nosebleed dripping down a doctor's immaculate gown, but muscles haven't much chance against the rigidity serum. He yielded to the hypodermic and did not come to during the brief ambulance ride, nor while they were being loaded onto the battered old Space Tramp. Hilda continued to scribble her antiquated shorthand surreptitiously on the pad, but they had appropriated her raditype. She was not given the rigidity serum until she was strapped onto a sleeping shelf in the ship. Only a small group of officers in the control room were conscious of the sudden inertia strain, when the rockets thundered out through earth's atmosphere. All the patients were mercifully in the long sleep that would seem like a minute of time, when awakened after months of racing through silent outer space.

* * * * *

John felt the prick of the needle that awakened him to consciousness, through a vague haze of half forgetfulness. Suddenly he remembered, and tore feverishly at the straps holding him down. In a moment he was free from their restraint, but laughing in vexation at his forgetfulness when his exertions threw him upward, and he hung suspended in the cabin space dangling from the strap still held in his right hand. He had forgotten they had left gravity behind. He pulled himself down and seized the sleeping shelf with his left hand. Clinging to it, he sidled along toward the forward port. Patients, under their straps as he passed, were slowly coming back to life, and they stared at him frightened, or amused or indifferent, according to their conditions. The attendants had gone from the cabin. At last John could see through a six foot plate of hardened glass. The view was slightly hazy, and unreal. Below their plunging ship was the Red Planet, still a vague sphere. The orange glow, familiar to earth telescopes, was gone now. The vast stretches of red desert and darker marsh areas became faintly distinguishable. Those regular lines of water channels from the opposing polar caps became visible to the naked eye, and were far less geometrical than earth pictures had shown them. It was summer in the northern hemisphere, and its polar cap had receded.

The one previous expedition to this dying planet had been given little publicity and John was fascinated by the view before him. At last they entered the thin atmosphere. Instant by instant, the deserts and low rounded hills grew visible. Lines of vegetation along the water channels turned green. Finally, the forward jets of the ship roared and John was crashed against the rear cabin wall, by the change of speed. He crawled painfully back to his sleeping shelf and strapped himself in. The rumor was true--He was on a ship of doom--and Hilda--where was she? Had she escaped? There was nothing he could do. The ship screamed into thicker, lower atmosphere and vibrations penetrated her thick hull.

John's memory of previous space trips told him they were nearly ready to land. There was hardly a jar, as they grounded and tilted slowly to rest. Sleepy eyed orderlies came in unsteadily, affected by the lighter gravity. They were pushing a truck full of helmets and oxygen tanks, which they deftly adjusted to the patients.

The men in this cabin were all able to walk and were soon outside the air lock. Following them came stretcher bearers, street roller ambulances, men on crutches, even a few of the more demented in glassite water jackets, from which they peered with dull eyes, as if they were drugged.

Hilda burst free from the second group of women and cried, "John! Oh, John, I'm so glad to find you."

She threw her arms around him and pillowed her head on his shoulder. He held her happily, his blood racing. This was a different girl from the hard and casual newspaper woman. Suddenly, she recovered.

"Sorry. Guess I have the old time jitters--I'll try not to let it happen again." She covered her gloved left hand with her right and turned away. "See what a hopeless pitiful mob," she said, after a moment.

"Yes, and I wonder what next. I've read that most of the old dwelling places are underground. The Martians made their last stand against desolation in cave cities."

"There's an entrance."

"Yes, and here come the guards."

The long procession of the lame, the blind, and the sick was soon in weaving motion over red sand toward a great metal door set into a low cliff. Their oxygen helmets bobbed almost comically. There were few guards and these made little attempt at restraint. John and Hilda went hand in hand toward a group in the lead, the seemingly able bodied ones.

"I suppose most of these are alcoholics and drug addicts," John remarked, absently, as they followed.

"Maybe this will really cure them. They certainly can't escape or bribe their way to intoxication here."

"What's the use of getting cured on this desert?"

"Don't give up, John. Oh, you're thinking that there will be no more Elks Club balls!" She took his arm and smiled derisively.

"Yes, maybe--"

"And all the Susies, and Mabels, and Evelyns were left behind--Too bad!"

"Aw--cut it--We've got to figure out something--"

* * * * *

The guards were not unkind, but herded them like cattle, impersonally and silently. The great steel door clanged, and they were able to remove their helmets in the air conditioned interior.

This strange crowd of the banished drew together in a vast open cave, dimly lighted by weak electric globes. In the distance they could hear the throbbing of an old fashioned generator. Dr. Henderson stood on an overturned packing case with one of the primitive sound amplifiers set up before him. He spoke calmly now, more at ease than at home, as if relieved.

"Men and women," he began, "we are not here to harm you. This great experiment is being conducted in the interests of humanity. The constant presence of the sick is disturbing to eugenic controls and ideals. The Leader and the Earth Council have wisely established this colony. You will still be treated by the best of our skill. Any who recover will be placed in an isolated and independent colony. The slightly crippled will be given handicraft and factory tasks. Their products will be shipped to Earth and sold to maintain the supply line."

"Where do we live?" blurted a portly, middle aged man near John.

"There are separated quarters a few miles down the passage--Of course rather primitive--but you can make yourselves fairly comfortable."

Hilda noticed one of the nurses standing near the Doctor. Her tightly waved blonde hair was gleaming in the dim light near the speaker's improvised platform. Her large blue eyes were slightly closed and her full red lips sagged almost hopelessly, but she was strikingly beautiful, with strong, clean cut features and a clear skin.

Beyond were other nurses and doctors in white uniforms, scattered like lonely ghosts among the five hundred and more patients. Hilda wondered what had induced these people to voluntarily leave the comforts of civilization. Were they derelicts of time, idealists, or just out of work?

"There is one difference in this colony," went on Dr. Henderson in a lower tone. "If any of you find it too difficult to exist under the new conditions, euthanasia will be permitted--a sleeping pill in the white room--and your troubles are over."

"Yeah--and the state saves money!" snarled the white faced man who had rebelled at the hospital entrance before them.

"It will be purely voluntary," said Dr. Henderson calmly.

"Oh, I'll bet they'll use hypnotics!" whispered Hilda, in a shocked voice, "They'll make them want to--What a twisted code of ethics. They don't dare to face their own attitudes. Such hypocrisy! Why not just line us up and use the ray guns?"

Doctor Henderson ended his address with additional promises and then stepped down. In a few minutes the crowd was broken up into small units. John and Hilda walked with the group of alcoholics and arrested mental cases. They began to talk and sought acquaintanceship to cancel fear. It was almost a relief to leave the congregation of pain behind them.

There was only one doctor with this group, Old Doctor Smithson, a retired psychiatrist who had begun working at the district hospital after losing his fortune in the stock market. He was now too old for general practice. His thin, bent shoulders straightened as he walked. His words became crisp and cheerful as if he welcomed the adventure. With him were two nurses, Mary, the blonde girl Hilda had noticed, and a little, red headed, freckled faced woman of indeterminate years.

Near Hilda and John walked Major Henry Mattson, a psychiatric casualty of the war of 1960, seemingly cured. The rebellious one, twice noticed by the reporters before, walked ahead. He said his name was Tony Pacina. A tall, white haired man with thick glasses, recently cured of a cataract, introduced himself as Mark Hemingway and said that he was a chemist and had been in the surgery at the hospital for his operation because of confidence in Dr. Henderson. If this should prove true his accidental presence might be helpful.

* * * * *

Around them were the others they would seek to know later. The group tramped briskly behind Dr. Smithson. They were the "cured" ones. With health, happiness is possible anywhere. They felt themselves beginning a strange comradeship, even cheerfulness.

"I wonder where they're taking us," said Hilda, clinging to John's arm to keep up with the brisk pace, and laughing at the way a little jump could lift her up and far ahead.

"I wonder, too. Well, Honey, if I must be cast away--I'm glad it's with you."

She squeezed his arm, but said nothing. There was light ahead at the end of the long tunnel. They entered a large open chamber.

It was not a luxurious room, but neither was it a prison. There was sufficient heat, and the mattresses and sheets were clean. There were two shower and bath rooms beyond but no ultra violet equipment. Cloth curtains were hung to drop around their beds. One side of the room was lined half way to the ceiling with frayed and battered books. One wall had a moving picture screen. There was no television. One noted the absence of buttons to push and gadgets for speed and comfort. There were no sliding floors.

"Our legs will ache with all the walking in this city," said Hilda, rather doubtfully.

"I'll like that. I'd enjoy developing a little muscle again."

"I wonder where those passages go. Do you suppose they'll permit us to go out?"

"Let's see."

As they stepped to the door, Mary came forward and gave them each a folded paper map, and a double holster holding a radilight and a gas pellet gun. Hilda buckled hers on, laughing at its weight. John stared at his thoughtfully.

"No real danger here," said the blonde nurse, "but our instruction manuals say there are Mars rats--something like the jack rabbits on western sage plains back home. They run around the cave area. Nothing larger has been left in the passages. They aren't very good to eat, so we just gas them and leave them to recover. Dr. Henderson wants a reserve food supply in case of emergency. They are about twice the size of rabbits back home, and their bite is infectious. If you go beyond any of the air doors, you may need oxygen helmets, the atmosphere is pretty thin. It will take you a bit of time to get used to the lighter gravity, but that's sort of fun." She said it all with professional cheeriness, as if it were memorized, but she paid very little attention to them.

"Want to come along?" asked John.

"Sorry. I have to stay here to help Dr. Smithson. I'd like to--maybe another time. We are both on duty today." She smiled, and the settled sadness of her face was gone for a moment.

"Well, thanks," said John, unfolding his map slowly.

"Oh, yes," she added, "and never go beyond sight of the entrance if you go out on the desert. You can see for miles even though the horizon is nearer up here. If danger comes you can make it back to the door easily. But there are very unpleasant things on this planet. The safety is all underground. Maybe you'd better have one of the manuals. It will be light outside and you can read." She took a thin booklet from the bundle of papers in her hand and gave it to Hilda, then walked briskly away.

They pushed open the room door, and stepped cautiously down a dry, dark passageway. Old marks of ray blast on the sandstone walls showed that all this underground world was artificial. Red desert sand underfoot was hard, dry and clean.

"Oh, John, it does seem good to be by ourselves again. All these sick folks depress me."

"Yes, and what depresses me is how I'm going to get you back to Earth. It may be months before another ship comes. And they won't dare to let us go back and tell, until the experiment is well established." He folded the map carefully.

"Think of all the hundreds of families back home who must be frantic."

John's voice was savage as he answered, "I found out a bit about that from the Major. It seems that every family got a printed letter, telling about the new colony and claiming it was mostly for the good of the patients. And there is a systematic health propaganda planned to follow that up, conditioning the minds of their relatives to the undertaking in all its implications. I believe the patients are even allowed to write letters--censored, of course, and delivered once in two years. You know there is no radio contact."

They walked on, in understanding silence, until she took his arm and indicated a great copper door. "Look, John, on the map it says that door 101 is an outside entrance. Let's go and see."

II

They adjusted helmets and manipulated the manual locks of the double doors, with some experiment. John finally convinced himself that he could re-enter without difficulty. Then the two Earth people stepped out into a weird atmosphere under a strangely small sun. The sky was dark blue, tending toward black. Stars glittered, though it was still day. Their helmets provided a mixture of oxygen with the planet's natural atmosphere.

"It's like a dream, John."

The hills were old and worn out but there were no trees. Deep shadows folded into the distance in the cold slanting sunlight, tracing sandy curves with velvet-like smoothness.

John answered her thought, "Those vivid colors and deceptive distances remind me of my boyhood in Idaho. I'll bet there's the same difference between light and shade, too. Let's step into the shadow of that rock and see if it isn't suddenly much cooler."

He led her to a pyramid-like rock projecting about twenty feet out of the sand, and casting a shadow toward them.

Hilda exclaimed, "Yes, it is colder. Why?"

"The thin air always diffuses heat less than moist heavy air near the sea, and at a lower altitude. I'll bet on a cold day you could get frozen out of the sunlight before you realized."

"And there are no clouds. What a strange dark sky!"

"I've read that there are often yellowish clouds of dust but it is only at night, when the cold comes with sunset, that moisture clouds are formed. Nights are too cold for human existence without special protection."

She shivered. "I'd get to hate that sky after a time. It is pitiless."

"You certainly would if you were lost on this desert."

"Let's rest a bit, John, and see what the manual has to say."

"Fine! We can lean our backs against this rock."

"We'd better get on the sunny side of it."