Branded an outlaw by the ISP, hated and
feared as a mutant, Clyde Vickers stalked
his quarry in impotent rage. His kind, it
seemed, was always wanted for the dirty work....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Clyde Vickers shuffled awkwardly down the gangplank. After two years onJupiter he felt buoyant as a toy balloon in the mild gravity of Earth'ssatellite. Every step he expected to go sailing over the heads of theother passengers—up, up into the vast booming reaches of Luna City'sairlock.
The line jammed, came to a fuming stop. Vickers found himself wedgedbetween a woman who had boarded the liner at Mars and a beardedPlutonian explorer. He craned his neck, peering over their heads to seewhat had caused the bottleneck.
An officer of the ISP, in a blue uniform, was standing at the foot ofthe gangplank, examining passports. Vickers cursed under his breath.
"Damn them," he thought, "damn them."
Behind him, the black spaceliner made sudden pistol-like reports asit expanded in the warm air. It had brought some of the cold of outerspace along with it, and hoar frost stood out on its sides a footthick. It was rapidly exhausting the heat in the airlock. Vickersshivered as the cold struck through his ill-fitting gray suit.
"Papers," the ISP man said and held out his hand.
With a start Vickers realized that he had reached the end of thegangplank. The ISP man took one look at Vickers' little green book andhis face hardened.
"Parolee!" he said.
There were whispers from the crowd. A little boy said: "What's he done,momma? What's he done?"
"Hush!" she bade him.
Vickers gave no sign that he'd heard.
"Two-time loser, eh?" the ISP man went on and ran his eyes overVickers. He saw a tall man with huge shoulders, the muscle bulging thecheap gray cloth—muscle that could be acquired only in the killinggravity of Jupiter's penal mines. Then he saw Vickers' eyes, and helooked startled.
Vickers had his nictitating lids lowered; his eyes seemed almostnormal. Almost but not quite!
"What the devil!" the ISP man wet his lips. "Vickers! By God, I shouldhave recognized the name. Vickers, eh?" He seemed about to say more,then changed his mind. "Move along. You're holding up the line."
"My passport."
"Pick it up at the parole board. If you don't report there intwenty-four hours, you'll be picked up yourself and shipped back toJupiter. You're a two-time loser, Vickers; you can't afford to get intotrouble again."
Vickers regarded him with open dislike, then turned on his heel,started across the spaceport at a cautious shuffle.
Freedom!
He couldn't leave the moon. He had to accept whatever work the paroleboard secured for him—more than likely some stinking job deep in themoon pits. He must report for a check-up and a psycho-therapeutictreatment every four weeks. He couldn't marry or hold property orchange jobs.
And if he fell from grace again, it meant sterilization and a lifesentence on Jupiter.
Freedom. What the hell had he to look forward to?
All his life Vickers had been lonely. His parents, horrified at havingproduced a monstrosity, had placed him in a home and washed their handsof him.
Not that Vickers' abnormality was disfiguring or particularlynoticeable even—you had to look closely at his eyes to recognize thenictitating lids—but he was a freak, a mutant, and the sight of himhad been a constant reminder of their shame.
At the home,