Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) by William F Nolan Page B
Authors: William F Nolan
Tags: Science-Fiction
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Albright Cluster!"
A clicking. A whirring. Tiny lights went on and off.
Then the wall said, its tone flat and matter-of-fact: "You molested a mulch in the lower Albright Cluster on the 6th of March, 2053. And again, with a second mulch, on the 10th of June, 2054. It is all here in your faxfile, Mr. Space."
"Then the file lies!" I yelled, jumping from the bodchair. "I'm no forger, kidnapper, or mulch molester! Wrenhurst is behind this. He must have bribed a fax official to have my faxfile falsified!"
There was an awkward silence.
"By jumping up and yelling at me, you exhibit prime psychotic behavior, Mr. Space," said the wall in a self-satisfied tone. "Naturally, most psychotics assume that their records have been tampered with by nefarious personages. All very much in line with your criminal profile."
I slumped back into the bodchair.
The wall clicked and whirred again. "I'll have a mild tranquilizer administered with your moldy bread crusts. The dosage will not interfere with your duties as scooper. Two milligrains should do the trick."
"I don't need a tranquilizer!"
"It should ease your nerves," the wall said. "Goodbye."
And it went blank.
All of its tiny lights were out; its tapes had stopped whirring. It was dark and silent.
I felt the guard's heavy hand on my shoulder. "All right, Space. You've had your little visit with the doc. Now, back to work!"
I was numb and defeated.
I'd accomplished nothing.
I was no closer to getting out of Hell than the day I arrived.
The wall remained dark and silent as the guard led me away.
Nineteen
Working the juice …
Bending, scooping, sweating.
Heat so bad, you didn't want to breathe. Every lungful of air a punishment. Exhaustion racking you. The triple suns scalding the sky. The guards prodding you, never letting you ease off.
Working the juice.
* * *
By the end of the fifteenth sunperiod I'd made a decision.
"I've been talking to people," I told Cutter. "Finding out things."
"Ay? An' what have ya learned?" He was stretched belly down on his cot, his big hair-matted body drained of strength. Each night we were both a little weaker, a little thinner, closer to collapse.
"That the life of a scooper seldom exceeds a hundred sunperiods … that you die scooping juice … that the guards strip your corpse and leave you to sizzle under the suns."
"Yer tellin' me nothin' new, mate," growled Cutter. "In Hell, ya fry. That's our lot, an' nothin' to be done about it."
"I'm going to do something about it," I said.
"An' just what would that be?"
"I'm going to Volunteer," I said.
Cutter abruptly rolled over, sitting up on the cot. His face was the color of ashes. "No, mate! Don't even say it. Don't even use that bloody word!"
"I mean it," I told him. "Look, Cutter, it's the only way out of here, short of death."
"It's worse than death! It's a living death, that's what it is!"
"I hear some have survived okay."
"Survival, you say? As what? I'll tell ya what, lad! Abominations! That's what they survived to be, them that survived at all." He shook his matted head. "I'll take me chances scoopin' juice. If I go, I go as meself, ole Cutter, an' not some … twisted thing!"
"I was hoping you'd Volunteer along with me," I said.
"Never!" spat Cutter. "An' yer ten kinds of fool fer doin' it yerself!" His dark sunken eyes regarded me sadly. "Mark me, it's a terrible course you're undertakin — and if I was a religious man, I'd pray for ya. But, bein' an ax killer an' all, there's nothin' I can give ya but me pity."
I clapped him on one of his still-meaty shoulders. "Thanks, Cutter. I appreciate your concern."
There was nothing more to say, so we didn't say it.
The next morning, I Volunteered.
* * *
Naturally, I was accepted for the Program.
Volunteers were never turned down.
They shipped me out that same day on one of the big juice tubs. Not back to Earth, but at least out of the Gulfs.
I was dropped off at a planet called Jeremiah. It bore the name
A clicking. A whirring. Tiny lights went on and off.
Then the wall said, its tone flat and matter-of-fact: "You molested a mulch in the lower Albright Cluster on the 6th of March, 2053. And again, with a second mulch, on the 10th of June, 2054. It is all here in your faxfile, Mr. Space."
"Then the file lies!" I yelled, jumping from the bodchair. "I'm no forger, kidnapper, or mulch molester! Wrenhurst is behind this. He must have bribed a fax official to have my faxfile falsified!"
There was an awkward silence.
"By jumping up and yelling at me, you exhibit prime psychotic behavior, Mr. Space," said the wall in a self-satisfied tone. "Naturally, most psychotics assume that their records have been tampered with by nefarious personages. All very much in line with your criminal profile."
I slumped back into the bodchair.
The wall clicked and whirred again. "I'll have a mild tranquilizer administered with your moldy bread crusts. The dosage will not interfere with your duties as scooper. Two milligrains should do the trick."
"I don't need a tranquilizer!"
"It should ease your nerves," the wall said. "Goodbye."
And it went blank.
All of its tiny lights were out; its tapes had stopped whirring. It was dark and silent.
I felt the guard's heavy hand on my shoulder. "All right, Space. You've had your little visit with the doc. Now, back to work!"
I was numb and defeated.
I'd accomplished nothing.
I was no closer to getting out of Hell than the day I arrived.
The wall remained dark and silent as the guard led me away.
Nineteen
Working the juice …
Bending, scooping, sweating.
Heat so bad, you didn't want to breathe. Every lungful of air a punishment. Exhaustion racking you. The triple suns scalding the sky. The guards prodding you, never letting you ease off.
Working the juice.
* * *
By the end of the fifteenth sunperiod I'd made a decision.
"I've been talking to people," I told Cutter. "Finding out things."
"Ay? An' what have ya learned?" He was stretched belly down on his cot, his big hair-matted body drained of strength. Each night we were both a little weaker, a little thinner, closer to collapse.
"That the life of a scooper seldom exceeds a hundred sunperiods … that you die scooping juice … that the guards strip your corpse and leave you to sizzle under the suns."
"Yer tellin' me nothin' new, mate," growled Cutter. "In Hell, ya fry. That's our lot, an' nothin' to be done about it."
"I'm going to do something about it," I said.
"An' just what would that be?"
"I'm going to Volunteer," I said.
Cutter abruptly rolled over, sitting up on the cot. His face was the color of ashes. "No, mate! Don't even say it. Don't even use that bloody word!"
"I mean it," I told him. "Look, Cutter, it's the only way out of here, short of death."
"It's worse than death! It's a living death, that's what it is!"
"I hear some have survived okay."
"Survival, you say? As what? I'll tell ya what, lad! Abominations! That's what they survived to be, them that survived at all." He shook his matted head. "I'll take me chances scoopin' juice. If I go, I go as meself, ole Cutter, an' not some … twisted thing!"
"I was hoping you'd Volunteer along with me," I said.
"Never!" spat Cutter. "An' yer ten kinds of fool fer doin' it yerself!" His dark sunken eyes regarded me sadly. "Mark me, it's a terrible course you're undertakin — and if I was a religious man, I'd pray for ya. But, bein' an ax killer an' all, there's nothin' I can give ya but me pity."
I clapped him on one of his still-meaty shoulders. "Thanks, Cutter. I appreciate your concern."
There was nothing more to say, so we didn't say it.
The next morning, I Volunteered.
* * *
Naturally, I was accepted for the Program.
Volunteers were never turned down.
They shipped me out that same day on one of the big juice tubs. Not back to Earth, but at least out of the Gulfs.
I was dropped off at a planet called Jeremiah. It bore the name
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