Outcast Of The Stars
By Bob Silverberg
Yorkan Varr was exiled to the prison planet for a crime he knew he had never committed. Oddly, the man who had sent him there was a prisoner too!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1957 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"We're coming close to Earth now, Yorkan Varr," said the patrolman. "We'll be dumping you any minute now."
The man addressed as Yorkan Varr scowled bitterly. "You're making a mistake, I tell you. I didn't kill that man. I didn't even know him!"
The patrolman shrugged. "Sorry, but that's the way things go. The court said you're guilty—and here you are. Don't jump on me. I'm just doing my job."
Yorkan Varr made no reply. There was no sense arguing with the patrolman, after all. There was no sense arguing with anyone.
He got up and stared out the viewplate at the mottled, spinning globe of Earth below, growing closer every moment, and his thin lips curled in an angry grimace. Earth. The garbage world, the dumping-ground for the Galaxy's undesirables. Who'd ever imagine that he—Yorkan Varr—would someday be approaching Earth for a life of exile?
He whirled to face the unsmiling patrolman. "Dammit, Hober, I didn't kill him! You can't throw me into that refuse-heap down there! You can't do it!"
"Please, Yorkan Varr. We're approaching the moment when we must part." The patrolman held out a hand. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you. It's my job, that's all. Shake?"
Yorkan Varr stared at the extended hand for a moment, then slapped it away. The patrolman smiled apologetically and rang a bell. Three other men, also in the bronze uniform of the Condelari Federation, appeared from within and saluted.
"Get the disposal ship ready," the patrolman ordered.
"Yes, sir."
Hober turned to Yorkan Varr. "Come on, now. Let's go down and get ready to go to Earth, shall we?"
With a half-sobbing cry, Yorkan Varr threw himself forward on the patrolman. His fists pounded mercilessly into the amazed man as he released the pent-up emotions of the nightmarish trial, the sentence, the journey across space to Earth.
"Help! Help!"
Varr felt hands grasp him from behind. Blind with rage, he let go of Hober, struck out at the others, felt his fists crack satisfyingly into flesh.
Then there was the chilling numbness of a stunbeam, and Varr froze.
"All right," he heard someone say. "Let's load him aboard the disposal rocket. They all crack up this way, I guess."
He felt hands lift him, felt himself being carried down a ladder and into a cooler room. Then he blanked out as a sudden thrust of acceleration struck him. His last conscious thought was that he was now on the last leg of his one-way journey to Earth, condemned to the dumping-ground of the universe for a crime he never committed.
I didn't kill him, he thought fiercely. I didn't kill him.
When he awoke, he found himself lying in a wooded area. He sat up in the grass and tried to get his bearings. He was dressed in rough, oddly-cut clothing, and in his hand was a letter-capsule. He broke it open and read the note inside.
To Yorkan Varr:
You have been accused and found guilty of the crime of murder. Therefore, you have been placed on the planet Sol III to live out the rest of your natural life.
However, in order that you may not be helpless, we have provided you with clothing, money, and identification. You will be able to get along in this society if you are careful. We warn you, however, that the people of this planet actually kill for punishment of certain crimes. Govern yourself accordingly.
The Council of Judges.
As Yorkan read the last line, the message paper faded, grayed, and crumbled in his hand. It became a powder and fell, like fine ash, from his fingers.
And with it went the last thing that connected him with the Condelari Federation.
Yorkan stood up and looked up at the stars. I know who did it, he thought. But I couldn't prove it.
