Colony of the Unfit

Mars had become the prison planet for Earth's afflicted, for the Leaders had exiled them to a living death beneath its red surface. But the Leaders had erred in their cold-blooded calculations--Mars held a secret beyond their ken.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

John Greely looked at Hilda's freshly gloved, artificial hand, as she adjusted her note book to a clip concealed in the palm. The hand fascinated him horribly. Beauty should never be crippled. She sensed his morbid stare, but smiled and rose gracefully, saying, "O.K., Boss. Let's go."

She flashed bantering eyes at her editor, with a last pat of her heavily ringed right hand on the rich rolling waves of blonde hair that were always in place. The startling pale beauty of her young face was contrasted by glowing dark brown eyes. Theirs was a comfortable friendship, this of the young editor and his society staff and secretary, but a limited one. He said, gruffly, "Let me carry the raditype."

"No, you're the dignity, I'm the beast of burden. Come on, hurry! We've only five minutes to reach the district hospital."

John slipped on his transparent all-weather coat and helped Hilda with hers. His reddish brown hair flipped in the March wind as they stepped out from the Daily Home Recorder building. His almost boyishly round cheeks glowed with color. Hilda liked the way his shoulders snapped up as he faced the cold. She liked the way he took her arm, but she must always be casual....

"Do you suppose it's just another rumor?" she asked, as they stepped into a low, cigar shaped car.

"Look like straight dope to me. The Universal News Service is pretty conservative."

"How could things have changed so while we were away? It doesn't seem like the same world. Those men in Washington must be mad."

"I know, Hilda, but perhaps we are the ones who are out of step. This is the day of directed evolution."

"But, John--how horrible, to take all those sick folks and banish them on a Space Tramp!"

John drove past the old wooden houses of their small city and then let out speed on the highway before he answered, "The Leader says that is what we should do--harden our emotions for the sake of a better race. You and I are in the minority. Those years on the Moon trip have left us out of date."

They were silent for a little while before she continued, "Do you suppose we really are in the minority? The people who listen in to our raditype service seem just about as they did before we went away. Their letters prove that. I saw an old lady's scrap book the other day, of her clippings. I read it through because I had been wondering how much of the printed recording was ever reread. Most people are content to glance at the screen when the news first comes on. She had saved the old type sentimental items, just as an old lady would have five or ten years ago."

"Yes, the small towns are slow to change. That's why they hate the little news services like ours. Prepared news hastens the new day."

"Do you suppose they'll talk to us?"

"They'll have to," he said grimly, "with all those folks watching and listening in. I wonder what the patients think about the new idea--or if they know."

"Where do you think they will be sent? Why don't the authorities just put them to sleep with a lethal drug?"

"Search me, Honey. Well, here we are."

Their street roller drew up silently before a huge gray building in the open country and John turned the magnetic parking control. They stepped out from the grass-lined curb, and John pushed the moving sidewalk half-speed handle, sliding them quickly up to an entrance. It opened automatically and in a moment they were standing before a large silver reception screen.

A white haired doctor, in his long surgical gown, glowed rapidly into focus before them. His eyes darted at John like the incision of a lancet. "What's the press want this morning?"

"We'd like an interview on the Universe News story."

Hilda held her raditype transmitter open toward the screen, secure in the crook of her arm, while she made private stenographic notes on the pad. Every home in the Brownville Section, which happened to be tuned in, was seeing the Doctor and he suddenly realized it enough to smile slightly. He inwardly cursed the freedom of the press in small towns, but remarked with forced graciousness, "I'll have a nurse conduct you to the surgery. We can talk while I supervise some minor operations."

"Fine!"