A Scatter of Stardust by E. C. Tubb

was unusual, for a prisoner could scream his throat raw and be heard only by the monitor guard listening over the spy mikes in each cell. The whisper came closer, magnified by a trick of acoustics, the regular beat of hard shoes. They halted outside the door, and Ward sat upright on the cot as it slid aside. Two men entered the cell. Ward thought he knew what they wanted.
    “More tests?” He moved along the cot, making room if the others wished to sit. One of them was a quiet man with a thoughtful expression and a uniform which matched the green plastic of the walls. He held a gas gun which he kept pointed toward the prisoner. The other man was a civilian. He wore a dark business suit and carried a folder of papers beneath his arm. He did not look like a psychiatrist but appearances meant nothing.
    “No tests, at least not in the way you’re thinking.” The civilian hesitated between sitting on the toilet or the cot. He chose the cot. “My name is Fromach.”
    “You know mine,” said Ward. He glanced at the guard, standing just inside the relocked door. His companion couldn’t be seen, but Ward knew that he would be waiting outside. It was the classic pattern, one guard inside ready to release a cloud of stunning gas if the prisoner made an aggressive move, the other to watch from absolute safety. There could be no escape from the prison.
    “Ward Hammond, engineer, sentenced to a term of seven years imprisonment for fraud. It was a nonviolent crime and so you were not automatically lobotomized on conviction,” said Fromach easily. “Correct?”
    “You know it is.” Ward looked at the civilian. “What’s all this about?”
    “You have served two of your seven years,” said Fromach, reading from his papers. “During that time you have proved a model prisoner, showing a high index of stability and an intelligent acceptance of your environment.” He lifted his head, smiling. “In other words you haven’t flown into violent rages, tried to commit suicide, beat down the walls or anything equally stupid.”
    “Would it have done any good if I had?”
    “None at all.”
    “That’s what I thought,” said Ward. He leaned back against the wall, enjoying the company, the sound of another voice, the feel of conversation on his lips and tongue. “Acting up is the quickest way to get certified for lobotomy.”
    “And automatic release,” reminded Fromach. “Don’t forget that.”
    “I came into this place a man,” said Ward tightly. “I intend leaving the same, not as a brain-slashed zombie.”
    “A lobotomized prisoner is deemed no longer to be the individual who committed the crime for which he was sentenced,” pointed out Fromach. “You could volunteer for it.”
    “No.” Ward was curt. “And they can’t do it to me unless I’m judged insane by at least two doctors. Even a prisoner has some rights.”
    “They will be respected,” assured Fromach. “You can stay in this cell for a further five years and, if you remain sane, you will not be touched.” His eyes were meaningful. “If you remain sane.”
    “I will.”
    “I wonder?” Fromach examined the cell, the green walls, the opaque door. He prodded the mattress, solidly constructed as an integral part of the immovable bed. The sanitation arrangements did not trap water, and shaving was done by a non-poisonous cream which removed hair and stunned the follicles for several days. Ward guessed his thoughts.
    “Suicide is a symptom of insanity. That’s out, too.”
    “Seventy-eight percent of all long-term prisoners eventually attempt suicide,” said Fromach mildly. “Some of the methods employed are extremely ingenious. None are successful.”
    “So?”
    “What makes you so certain that you are different from other men? Five years is a long time, Ward. A very long time.”
    “I like my own company.” Ward looked at the guard then at Fromach. “What are you trying to do? Is it a part of my punishment that I should be mentally