Badge of Infamy | Page 7

have expected it. Tubemen had the lowest
lot of all the crew. Between the killing work, the heat of the tubes, and
occasional doses of radiation, their lives weren't worth the metal value
of their tickets.
He began pulling himself clumsily along a shaft, dodging freight the
loaders were tossing from hand to hand. A bag hit his head, drawing
blood, and another caught him in the groin.
"Watch it, bo," a loader yelled at him. "You dent that bag and they'll
brig you. Cantcha see it's got a special courtesy stripe?"
It had a brilliant green stripe, he saw. It also had a name, printed in
block letters that shouted their identity before he could read the words.
Dr. Christina Ryan, Southport, Mars.
And he'd had to choose this time to leave Earth!
Suddenly he was glad he was assigned to the tubes. It was the one place
on the ship where he'd be least likely to run into her. As a doctor and a
courtesy passenger, she'd have complete run of the ship, but she'd
hardly bother with the dangerous and unpleasant tube section.
He dragged his way back, beginning to sweat with the effort. The
Navaho was an old ship. A lot of the handholds were missing, and he
had to throw himself along by erratic leaps. He was gaining proficiency,
but not enough to handle himself if the ship blasted off. Time was
growing short when he reached the aft bunkroom where the other

tubemen were waiting.
"Ben," one husky introduced himself. "Tube chief. Know how to work
this?"
Feldman could see that they were assembling a small still. He'd heard
of the phenomenal quantities of beer spacemen drank, and now he
realized what really happened to it. Hard liquor was supposed to be
forbidden, but they made their own. "I can work it," he decided.
"I'm--uh--Dan."
"Okay, Dan." Ben glanced at the clock. "Hit the sacks, boys."
By the time Feldman could settle into the sacklike hammock, the
Navaho began to shake faintly, and weight piled up. It was mild
compared to that on the shuttle, since the big ships couldn't take high
acceleration. Space had been conquered for more than a century, but
the ships were still flimsy tubs that took months to reach Mars, using
immense amounts of fuel. Only the valuable plant hormones from Mars
made commerce possible at the ridiculously high freight rate.
Three hours later he began to find out why spacemen didn't seem to
fear dying or turning pariah. The tube quarters had grown insufferably
hot during the long blast, but the main tube-room was blistering as Ben
led the men into it. The chief handed out spacesuits and motioned for
Dan.
"Greenhorn, aincha? Okay, I'll take you with me. We go out in the
tubes and pull the lining. I pry up the stuff, you carry it back here and
stack it."
They sealed off the tube-room, pumped out the air, and went into the
steaming, mildly radioactive tubes, just big enough for a man on hands
and knees. Beyond the tube mouth was empty space, waiting for the
man who slipped. Ben began ripping out the eroded blocks with a
special tool. Feldman carried them back and stacked them along with
others. A plasma furnace melted them down into new blocks. The work
grew progressively worse as the distance to the tube-room increased.

The tube mouth yawned closer and closer. There were no handholds
there--only the friction of a man's body in the tube.
Life settled into a dull routine of labor, sleep, and the brief relief of the
crude white mule from the still.
They were six weeks out and almost finished with the tube cleaning
when Number Two tube blew. Bits of the remaining radioactive fuel
must have collected slowly until they reached blow-point. Feldman in
Number One would have gone sailing out into space, but Ben reacted at
once. As the ship leaped slightly, Feldman brought up sharply against
the chief's braced body. For a second their fate hung in the balance.
Then it was over, and Ben shoved him back, grinning faintly.
He jerked his thumb and touched helmets briefly. "There they go,
Dan."
The two men who had been working in Number Two were charred
lumps, drifting out into space.
No further comment was made on it, except that they'd have to work
harder from now on, since they were shorthanded.
That rest period Feldman came down with a mild attack of
space-stomach--which meant no more drinking for him--and was off
work for a day. Then the pace picked up. The tubes were cleared and
they began laying the new lining for the landing blasts. There was no
time for thought after that. Mars' orbital station lay close when the
work was finished.
Ben