Badge of Infamy | Page 3

any money, it covers my fee
and the rest goes to his own Lobby." There were several bills, all of
large denominations. He turned the ticket over and began filling in the
death certificate. "Arthur Billings. Space Lobby. Crewman. Cause of
death, idiopathic gastroenteritis and delirium tremens."
There had been no evidence of delirium tremens, but apparently the
doctor felt he had scored a point. He tossed the space ticket toward the
shoes, closed his bag, and prepared to leave.
"Hey, doc!" The attendant's voice was indignant. "Hey, what about my
reporting fee?"
The doctor stopped. He glanced at the kid, then toward Feldman, his
face a mixture of speculation and dislike. He took a dollar bill from the
wallet. "That's right," he admitted. "The fee for reporting a solvent case.
Medical Lobby rules apply--even to a man who breaks them."
The kid's hand was out, but the doctor dropped the dollar onto

Feldman's cot. "There's your fee, pariah." He left, forcing the protesting
attendant to precede him.
Feldman reached for the bill. It was blood money for letting a man
die--but it meant cigarettes and food--or shelter for another night, if he
could get a mission meal. He no longer could afford pride. Grimly, he
pocketed the bill, staring at the face of the dead man. It looked back
sightlessly, now showing a faint speckling of tiny dots. They caught
Feldman's eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on
the skin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have
been cyanosis....
He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn't
worry about anything now but getting away from here before the
attendant made trouble. His eyes rested on the shoes of the dead
man--sturdy boots that would last for another year. They could do the
corpse no good; someone else would steal them if he didn't. But he
hesitated, cursing himself.
The right boot fitted better than he could have expected, but something
got in the way as he tried to put the left one on. His fingers found the
bronze ticket. He turned it over, considering it. He wasn't ready to fraud
his identity for what he'd heard of life on the spaceships, yet. But he
shoved it into his pocket and finished lacing the boots.
Outside, the snow was still falling, but it had turned to slush, and the
sidewalk was soggy underfoot. There was going to be no work
shoveling snow, he realized. This would melt before the day was over.
Feldman hunched the suitcoat up, shivering as the cold bit into him.
The boots felt good, though; if he'd had socks, they would have been
completely comfortable.
He passed a cheap restaurant, and the smell of the synthetics set his
stomach churning. It had been two days since his last real meal, and the
dollar burned in his pocket. But he had to wait. There was a fair chance
this early that he could scavenge something edible.
He shuffled on. After a while, the cold bothered him less, and he passed

through the hunger spell. He rolled another smoke and sucked at it,
hardly thinking. It was better that way.
It was much later when the big caduceus set into the sidewalk snapped
him back to awareness of where he'd traveled. His undirected feet had
led him much too far uptown, following old habits. This was the
Medical Lobby building, where he'd spent more than enough time,
including three weeks in custody before they stripped him of all rank
and status.
His eyes wandered to the ornate entrance where he'd first emerged as a
pariah. He'd meant to walk down those steps as if he were still a man.
But each step had drained his resolution, until he'd finally covered his
face and slunk off, knowing himself for what the world had branded
him.
He stood there now, staring at the smug young medical politicians and
the tired old general practitioners filing in and out. One of the latter
halted, fumbled in his pocket and drew out a quarter.
"Merry Christmas!" he said dully.
Feldman fingered the coin. Then he saw a gray Medical policeman
watching him, and he knew it was time to move on. Sooner or later,
someone would recognize him here.
He clutched the quarter and turned to look for a coffee shop that sold
the synthetics to which his metabolism had been switched. No shop
would serve him here, but he could buy coffee and a piece of cake to
take out.
A flurry of motion registered from the corner of his eye, and he glanced
back.
"Taxi! Taxi!"
The girl rushing down the steps had a clear soprano voice, cultured and
commanding. The gray Medical uniform seemed molded to her