treatment.”
“Lobotomy?”
“Not necessarily. Lobotomy can only be given with the full consent of the patient or his relatives. Consent is rarely given.”
“No,” said Ward feelingly. “It wouldn’t be.” He paused, a small knot of fear gathering in his stomach. “How do I stand on that?”
“You are a prisoner,” said Fromach delicately. “The fact that you have chosen to serve your sentence on a watch station instead of in a prison makes no difference to your status. If you break, you will automatically be lobotomized.”
Protest was useless. Modem society wasted neither pity nor sentiment on its criminals. The answer, obviously, was to remain sane. Ward looked at Fromach. “Was that the second reason?”
“What?”
“You said there were two other reasons for choosing me. You’ve told me one of them. Have you told me the other?”
“In a way.” Fromach rose and unlocked the door. He paused with the panel half-open. “The true reason, of course, contains all the others. You’re no fool, you should be able to figure out what that is.”
Alone, Ward relaxed as he had learned to relax during the past two years. He didn’t have to wonder what Fromach had meant. The logic was inescapable. Criminals were expendable.
*
The watch station was a laminated dome set on the ice of Callisto. It held instruments connected to spatial probes, instruments for cosmic ray counting, instruments to measure the variations in orbit of the other satellites revolving around the immense bulk of Jupiter. It held instruments to record everything which went on around it, together with more instruments to record the findings on permanent tape. It also held living quarters for one man.
“We’ve stations like this scattered over the entire solar system,” said Fromach before he left. “We’ve got them on every satellite, most of the large asteroids and even some in free orbit. They do nothing but collect data, and we come on regular schedule to collect the filled tapes.”
“How regular?”
“Maybe once a year, two years. It doesn’t matter.”
“Not to the machines, it doesn’t,” agreed Ward. “But what about me?”
“Your job is to keep watch on the machines. Call it general maintenance.”
“Janitor’s work.” Ward was disappointed. “Is that all?”
“It’s enough.” Fromach held out his hand. “Goodbye, Ward.”
“I’ll be seeing you.” Ward gripped the proffered hand. “A couple more questions. Any radio?”
“Only for ship to station communication. The static is too bad for any distance.” Fromach was impatient to get away. “Anything else?”
“One thing. What do you do with all the data you’re collecting?”
“We feed it into a big computer back home. One day, when we’ve enough data, we’ll be able to find out everything about the comer of the universe in which we live.” Fromach stepped to the exit port, was gone. Minutes later the ship left, too. Ward was alone.
He didn’t let it worry him. He checked the instruments and found the repair manuals. He fixed some food and brewed some coffee. He found a small library of tattered books, some magnetic, three-dimensional jigsaws; other items collected over the years by previous attendants who had their own ideas of how to relieve the monotony.
He chuckled at the assortment. None of the previous attendants had had his experience. Two years in a small cell without company, books or recreation of any kind had made him indifferent to toys. To Ward five years in this place promised to be a snap.
At first time passed easily enough. He examined the station, read everything there was to read, played with the three-dimensional jigsaw and other toys and sampled various combinations of food from the storeroom. He even tried to regain his lost fitness with a series of self-invented exercises. He didn’t succeed. The confined quarters and lack of equipment reduced his activities to a program of bends, push-ups and muscular tension,
“Lobotomy?”
“Not necessarily. Lobotomy can only be given with the full consent of the patient or his relatives. Consent is rarely given.”
“No,” said Ward feelingly. “It wouldn’t be.” He paused, a small knot of fear gathering in his stomach. “How do I stand on that?”
“You are a prisoner,” said Fromach delicately. “The fact that you have chosen to serve your sentence on a watch station instead of in a prison makes no difference to your status. If you break, you will automatically be lobotomized.”
Protest was useless. Modem society wasted neither pity nor sentiment on its criminals. The answer, obviously, was to remain sane. Ward looked at Fromach. “Was that the second reason?”
“What?”
“You said there were two other reasons for choosing me. You’ve told me one of them. Have you told me the other?”
“In a way.” Fromach rose and unlocked the door. He paused with the panel half-open. “The true reason, of course, contains all the others. You’re no fool, you should be able to figure out what that is.”
Alone, Ward relaxed as he had learned to relax during the past two years. He didn’t have to wonder what Fromach had meant. The logic was inescapable. Criminals were expendable.
*
The watch station was a laminated dome set on the ice of Callisto. It held instruments connected to spatial probes, instruments for cosmic ray counting, instruments to measure the variations in orbit of the other satellites revolving around the immense bulk of Jupiter. It held instruments to record everything which went on around it, together with more instruments to record the findings on permanent tape. It also held living quarters for one man.
“We’ve stations like this scattered over the entire solar system,” said Fromach before he left. “We’ve got them on every satellite, most of the large asteroids and even some in free orbit. They do nothing but collect data, and we come on regular schedule to collect the filled tapes.”
“How regular?”
“Maybe once a year, two years. It doesn’t matter.”
“Not to the machines, it doesn’t,” agreed Ward. “But what about me?”
“Your job is to keep watch on the machines. Call it general maintenance.”
“Janitor’s work.” Ward was disappointed. “Is that all?”
“It’s enough.” Fromach held out his hand. “Goodbye, Ward.”
“I’ll be seeing you.” Ward gripped the proffered hand. “A couple more questions. Any radio?”
“Only for ship to station communication. The static is too bad for any distance.” Fromach was impatient to get away. “Anything else?”
“One thing. What do you do with all the data you’re collecting?”
“We feed it into a big computer back home. One day, when we’ve enough data, we’ll be able to find out everything about the comer of the universe in which we live.” Fromach stepped to the exit port, was gone. Minutes later the ship left, too. Ward was alone.
He didn’t let it worry him. He checked the instruments and found the repair manuals. He fixed some food and brewed some coffee. He found a small library of tattered books, some magnetic, three-dimensional jigsaws; other items collected over the years by previous attendants who had their own ideas of how to relieve the monotony.
He chuckled at the assortment. None of the previous attendants had had his experience. Two years in a small cell without company, books or recreation of any kind had made him indifferent to toys. To Ward five years in this place promised to be a snap.
At first time passed easily enough. He examined the station, read everything there was to read, played with the three-dimensional jigsaw and other toys and sampled various combinations of food from the storeroom. He even tried to regain his lost fitness with a series of self-invented exercises. He didn’t succeed. The confined quarters and lack of equipment reduced his activities to a program of bends, push-ups and muscular tension,
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