A Scatter of Stardust by E. C. Tubb

A Scatter of Stardust by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb [Tubb, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Venture Press
Published: 2016-01-28T07:00:00+00:00


The Eyes of Silence

The cell was ten feet long, eight feet high and six wide. It held the bare essentials for sleeping, washing and sanitation. The walls were coated with a spongy green plastic, almost indestructible, seamless and soundproof. The single light came from behind a transparent panel in the ceiling. The door was a sheet of one-way glass perforated with countless holes for ventilation. There was no window. It was the modern version of a medieval oubliette. Ward Hammond had lived in it for two years.

He lay in the inevitable prison position, supine on the narrow cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was a big man, pale, muscles wasted and skin soft. He wore a loose shirt and slacks of drab gray. He had no belt, no tie, no underwear. His feet were bare. The clothing was made of paper and renewed every ten days. It tore easily and had so little mechanical strength that a rope made from it broke at the slightest strain. Suicide was actively discouraged. Insanity was not.

It was easy to go insane when locked in a narrow cell twenty-four hours a day, divorced from all human contact, fed with concentrates wrapped in edible packages which arrived, like the clothing, through a blind trap in the wall. Society had come to the conclusion that people were sent to prison to be punished and that as long as physical hardship was avoided, the punishment was justified. So, for the prisoners, the world ceased to exist. Everything ceased to exist but the narrow confines of their cells, the constant light, the constant loneliness. Insanity, to them, was literal escape.

A whisper of sound came from the corridor and Ward tensed, twisting on the cot so as to bring his ear hard against the door. The sound was unusual, for a prisoner could scream his throat raw and be heard only by the monitor guard listening over the spy mikes in each cell. The whisper came closer, magnified by a trick of acoustics, the regular beat of hard shoes. They halted outside the door, and Ward sat upright on the cot as it slid aside. Two men entered the cell. Ward thought he knew what they wanted.

“More tests?” He moved along the cot, making room if the others wished to sit. One of them was a quiet man with a thoughtful expression and a uniform which matched the green plastic of the walls. He held a gas gun which he kept pointed toward the prisoner. The other man was a civilian. He wore a dark business suit and carried a folder of papers beneath his arm. He did not look like a psychiatrist but appearances meant nothing.

“No tests, at least not in the way you’re thinking.” The civilian hesitated between sitting on the toilet or the cot. He chose the cot. “My name is Fromach.”

“You know mine,” said Ward. He glanced at the guard, standing just inside the relocked door. His companion couldn’t be seen, but Ward knew that he would be waiting outside.



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