Conroy found himself shanghaied to certain death in the radiation chamber of Earth's Wheel in space—as the planet below faced doom from—
A Madman On Board
By Robert Silverberg
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1958 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Through the clear plexiplast viewing dome of Earth Satellite V2-ZF, the bright orb of Earth could be seen, full and lustrous green against the sharp blackness of space.
But Dave Conroy wasn't able to feel much pleasure in the view. As he waited, hands linked with duralloy chains, he knew only that somehow he had landed in trouble—trouble that would probably cost him his life, here among the beauties of the orbital satellite.
"Go on in, next batch," a bored voice ordered.
Dave began to move, along with the half-dozen stubble-faced disreputable-looking men he was chained to. They stepped through a permaluce door; it swung closed silently behind them.
"This is the entrance to the jetroom," a uniformed man facing them announced. "I'm Major Hawes. Welcome to Earth Satellite V2-ZF—you poor suckers!" An acid sneer tinted his voice.
"Hey, hold on!" the man next to Conroy shouted. "What's goin' to happen to us?"
Major Hawes smiled politely. "You'll be put to work in the jetroom of the Satellite, making sure our noble orbiting wheel stays warm and cozy. You'll be feeding radioactives to the converter. You'll be doing a lot of jobs robots could do twice as well, and after a year or so of it your bodies will start to rot and you'll fall apart and you'll get the deaths you deserve."
Hawes chuckled. "There'll be guards making sure you don't shirk. Inside, now—and your predecessors will show you what you're to do."
The chains fell away. In here, no chains were needed. Dimly, Dave Conroy rubbed his forehead and wondered what he had done to condemn himself to this living hell.
"What kind of place is this?" he asked the man at his right, as a gleaming cupralloy door irised open before them.
"Is your mind snapping, buddy? You can't have forgotten so soon."
"I—I—it's all so hazy—"
"Hazy? It's simple, friend. You and me are four-time losers, like all these other guys. We got life imprisonment—but we volunteered for satellite duty instead. It's a quick death—only a year or so instead of a lifetime behind bars. And since there ain't no execution any more, we took it."
No—no—part of Conroy's mind protested. I didn't volunteer. I never was in jail ... except that drunken jetting once, and that was just overnight. How—why—?
"That can't be right," he said. "I'm not a criminal."
The other man looked at him strangely, then smiled pityingly. "You musta been lookin' the wrong way when the recruiters came around, then. Those birds'll do anything for ten thousand bucks."
They came to the end of the long corridor and approached another door—and suddenly Conroy remembered.
He had been drunk, that last night on Earth—and suddenly everyone in the bar had run madly out the door, into the washroom, hid anyplace they could. Two men had entered.
Recruiters. Space-station recruiters. Conroy remembered protesting mildly through a vague blue of alcohol and synthojoy, then letting them take him away. Sober now, he recalled having heard of such things. The space-stations needed men—and they'd grab them any way they could. They'd take uncomplaining derelicts when the supply of convicts ran out.
His fiancee Janet had told him, when she broke their engagement, "Your drinking'll kill you some day, Dave." The words had been prophetic—though not the way she meant.
The final door opened—and eight shambling, patchy-fleshed, almost bald wrecks of men came toward them. Dave shuddered. This was what a year of continuous hard radiation could do, even through tough shielding. This was what he'd look like a year from now.
Already he imagined he could feel the subatomic particles ripping through his body, even though he knew it was only an illusion. The radiation wouldn't begin to affect him for a few days—but even now he felt his skin tingling and itching from force of suggestion.
I've got to get out of here, he thought with a clarity he'd not known since he began drinking. I'm still young. I don't want to rot down here.
God, why couldn't I have been sober that night?
The eight jetmen looked like lepers. Through lipless mouths they greeted the newcomers. Their voices were dry and whispering, as if their vocal cords had succumbed to the radiation too.
Conroy had been a scientist ... once. Conroy, more than any of the six convicts he had been shipped with, knew what sort of agonies lay ahead.
