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Title: Outcast of the Stars

Author: Robert Silverberg

Release date: June 19, 2021 [eBook #65642]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65642

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUTCAST OF THE STARS ***

Outcast Of The Stars

By Bob Silverberg

Yorkan Varr was exiled to the prison

planet for a crime he knew he had

never committed. Oddly, the man who

had sent him there was a prisoner too!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy

February 1957

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

"We're coming close to Earth now, Yorkan Varr," said the patrolman. "We'll be dumping you any minute now."

The man addressed as Yorkan Varr scowled bitterly. "You're making a mistake, I tell you. I didn't kill that man. I didn't even know him!"

The patrolman shrugged. "Sorry, but that's the way things go. The court said you're guilty—and here you are. Don't jump on me. I'm just doing my job."

Yorkan Varr made no reply. There was no sense arguing with the patrolman, after all. There was no sense arguing with anyone.

He got up and stared out the viewplate at the mottled, spinning globe of Earth below, growing closer every moment, and his thin lips curled in an angry grimace. Earth. The garbage world, the dumping-ground for the Galaxy's undesirables. Who'd ever imagine that he—Yorkan Varr—would someday be approaching Earth for a life of exile?

He whirled to face the unsmiling patrolman. "Dammit, Hober, I didn't kill him! You can't throw me into that refuse-heap down there! You can't do it!"

"Please, Yorkan Varr. We're approaching the moment when we must part." The patrolman held out a hand. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you. It's my job, that's all. Shake?"

Yorkan Varr stared at the extended hand for a moment, then slapped it away. The patrolman smiled apologetically and rang a bell. Three other men, also in the bronze uniform of the Condelari Federation, appeared from within and saluted.

"Get the disposal ship ready," the patrolman ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Hober turned to Yorkan Varr. "Come on, now. Let's go down and get ready to go to Earth, shall we?"

With a half-sobbing cry, Yorkan Varr threw himself forward on the patrolman. His fists pounded mercilessly into the amazed man as he released the pent-up emotions of the nightmarish trial, the sentence, the journey across space to Earth.

"Help! Help!"

Varr felt hands grasp him from behind. Blind with rage, he let go of Hober, struck out at the others, felt his fists crack satisfyingly into flesh.

Then there was the chilling numbness of a stunbeam, and Varr froze.

"All right," he heard someone say. "Let's load him aboard the disposal rocket. They all crack up this way, I guess."

He felt hands lift him, felt himself being carried down a ladder and into a cooler room. Then he blanked out as a sudden thrust of acceleration struck him. His last conscious thought was that he was now on the last leg of his one-way journey to Earth, condemned to the dumping-ground of the universe for a crime he never committed.

I didn't kill him, he thought fiercely. I didn't kill him.

When he awoke, he found himself lying in a wooded area. He sat up in the grass and tried to get his bearings. He was dressed in rough, oddly-cut clothing, and in his hand was a letter-capsule. He broke it open and read the note inside.

To Yorkan Varr:

You have been accused and found guilty of the crime of murder. Therefore, you have been placed on the planet Sol III to live out the rest of your natural life.

However, in order that you may not be helpless, we have provided you with clothing, money, and identification. You will be able to get along in this society if you are careful. We warn you, however, that the people of this planet actually kill for punishment of certain crimes. Govern yourself accordingly.

The Council of Judges.

As Yorkan read the last line, the message paper faded, grayed, and crumbled in his hand. It became a powder and fell, like fine ash, from his fingers.

And with it went the last thing that connected him with the Condelari Federation.

Yorkan stood up and looked up at the stars. I know who did it, he thought. But I couldn't prove it.

He had seen the man's face just before he had blanked out from the stungun. When he had awakened, he found himself with a corpse and a charge of murder against him.

He looked down at himself again. His suit was coarsely woven and crude. He reached instinctively into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. The cards in it said he was John Arthur Stern, a retired war veteran who had been badly wounded during his service in the United Nations Police, during the African Insurrection of 1986.

"Well, fine," he said bitterly to the trees around him. "Where does that get me?"

"You're an Earthman now," said a voice. "That's what you'll have to remember."

Yorkan whirled at the sound of the soft, liquid voice.

"Who's that?" He found himself using English, the predominant language of this part of the exile planet. The language had been hypnotically implanted in his brain.

The girl was standing less than ten yards from him. In the moonlight, her hair and skin seemed almost silvery. She was light of complexion, he realized, and her hair was a light red-blonde. "Who the devil are you?"

She smiled a little and walked toward him. He felt a little odd; here he was, in a wood on a primitive planet, knowing almost nothing of the civilization that surrounded him, confronted by an Earthgirl who seemed to know him.

"It's a shock, I know," she was saying, "but you'll get over it. I know where you came from; you're a Condelarian. You've been exiled to this planet. We don't ask why you were sent here, nor what you did, nor what your real name is. What's the name on your identity card?"

"Stern," he said. "John Arthur Stern. But that doesn't explain why you're here."

The smile left her face. "We're all exiles here; the Group is composed entirely of exiles. We keep tabs on the prison ships that bring new offenders here, and we try to meet each one and tell them what's going on on this planet."

"And who are you?" he asked.

"Elizabeth Kirk is the name I was given. And as far as we are both concerned, that's my name."

"Very well, Elizabeth. Now, would you kindly explain what's going on?" He didn't trust the girl.

She stopped a few feet away, evidently realizing his suspicions. "Several hundred of us have been exiled here in the past few years," she explained. "We have been able to contact each other for our mutual protection. We help each other to learn to get along with the native Earthmen."

"Is that all?" He felt that the Group—whatever it was—must be doing more than that.

"Come with me," Elizabeth said. "I'll take you to the Group. They can explain everything. Our leader will tell you all about it."

Yorkan—no, Stern. He'd have to think of himself as Stern from now on—Stern followed the girl out of the wooded area. There was an automobile parked near a winding ribbon of road. She got behind the wheel and started the engine. The turboelectric motor whirred softly, and the car started down the highway.

"We're near Suffern, New York," the girl told him conversationally. "It's about an hour's drive from New York City itself."

The names brought forth hypnotically implanted memories in Stern's mind. But he found he didn't care where he was, really; all he wanted to do was get away from this planet—to prove, somehow, that he was innocent of the crime of which he had been accused.

The girl evidently sensed that her passenger didn't want to talk, because she didn't say another word during the drive into the city.

Stern didn't ask any questions; he wanted to think things out for himself. Besides, he had a hunch that he wouldn't get any satisfactory answers if he did ask her questions.

It was almost dawn when the car pulled up in front of the huge glass and aluminum building at 582 Fifth Avenue. The girl parked the car and opened the door. Then she spoke for the first time in over an hour.

"Shall we go in?"

John Stern grinned bitterly. "I may as well; what other choice do I have?"

"None, really," she said. "Come along."

She produced a key to the front door of the building, twisted it in the lock, and swung open one of the glass doors. Stern followed her to the bank of elevators, where she produced another key, unlocked the elevator, and ushered him inside.

She pushed the control button, and the car lifted rapidly.

Stern grinned inwardly. He was amused at his own helplessness. He knew very little about this world, so he couldn't turn down an opportunity to learn something about it, but he still felt as though he were being pushed into something he didn't like.

He wasn't going to let himself be pushed; that much he was sure of. Sol Three—Earth—was a dumping ground for criminals; what right did criminals have in organizing a group of their own? And how had they done it?

Yorkan Varr—now John Stern—didn't feel himself a criminal. He knew he had done nothing wrong; the evidence against him in the Galactic Court had been damning, but he knew that the Council of Judges had done the only thing they could have done at the time. He didn't hold any grudge against them; they had done what was right, what was in the real interests of civilization and the Condelari Federation.

Therefore, he felt that any group of criminals who organized against the Federation was definitely in the wrong.

Elizabeth said: "Eighteenth floor. We get out here."

They stepped out of the elevator, turned to the left, and walked down the hall. There was a light on in the office at the end of the hall—Suite 1814. The girl used another key on the door and walked into a room that was bare except for a few pictures on the wall, a couple of chairs, and a couch. She walked over to the wall and pressed a button in an intricate code. Then she walked over to the couch and sat down. She patted the cushion beside her.

"You may as well sit down, John Stern; Matt Skardoth wont be able to talk to us for several minutes."

Stern didn't sit down. He walked over to the girl and stood over her.

"Look, honey," he said coldly, "I've come this far. Now tell me what it's all about. What sort of organization is this?"

She looked up at him calmly and took a cigarette out of her purse. Stern watched curiously as she lit it.

She saw his gaze and smiled. "It's an Earthman's habit," she said. "It's harmless and rather nice. Try one?"

He pushed away the proffered package. "No. I want information."

Elizabeth leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"It's very simple," she said. "All of us have been exiled illegally. We've been put on this barbaric planet for crimes we haven't committed. We're organizing to take over the Earth government. We're going to get a spaceship built that can take us out of here."

There was a hum at the door that led to the inner office, and the door swung quietly open. Elizabeth stood up. "Come along, John; Matt Skardoth, our leader, will talk to you."

There were several men and women working in the inside office. A few of them glanced up, then went back to the work they were doing. It looked like a pretty efficient organization.

It was when Stern stepped into the inner office that he got his big shock. The man sitting behind the desk was a pleasantly smiling individual with dark, close-cropped hair and a wide, easy smile. But Stern had seen that face before; it was the man who had killed Bargon Frosz; the man who had committed the crime for which Yorkan Varr had been condemned!

Stern's eyes widened, then he regained control of himself.

"I'm Matt Skardoth," the man behind the desk said. His voice was deep, mellow. "Welcome to our little group, Mr.—ah—"

"Stern."

"Stern." Skardoth leaned forward. "You know, of course, what the aims of our organization are."

"To build a ship and get off Earth, isn't it?" Stern said. He thought: This is incredible. Here I am talking to the murderer whose rap I took, and—

"Exactly," Skardoth said. "We've been exiled unjustly—and we're determined to take steps to save ourselves. You don't have to join us, but I think it's in your best interest to do so."

It was at that point that Stern realized what the man behind the desk was doing. Matt Skardoth was the leader of the Group! And yet, Matt Skardoth had managed to murder Bargon Frosz and frame Yorkan Varr for the crime.

And the murder had taken place less than six months before!

Obviously, the man called Matt Skardoth had some way of getting off the planet Earth!

John Stern had to clench his jaw muscles to keep from saying anything. If he were to denounce Skardoth now, without proof, it would probably cost him his life.

He noticed that Skardoth was looking at him queerly, and he realized that he had been acting unusually.

"What's the matter?" Skardoth asked.

Smothering his hatred for the man who had falsely condemned him, Stern said: "Nothing—nothing. I'm just a little surprised, that's all. I thought this planet would be a living hell; a planet where I'd have to watch out for myself every moment. I'm glad to see that I was wrong, but it's a little shocking—that's all."

Skardoth's smile returned. "That's natural; most of us feel that way."

"I'm sure," Stern said. It took every bit of self-control he had to keep from leaping across the desk at the man.

It was clear that the man had something else in mind than the freeing of people who had been condemned by the Council of Judges. What was it that Elizabeth had said?

All of us have been exiled illegally.

If that was true, it meant that Matt Skardoth was behind the illegal ostracism of every Condelarian citizen on the planet!

And that was the main thing that held Stern back. If what he thought was actually true, then he was the only one who really knew what Matt Skardoth had done! And, by the way Skardoth was treating him, Skardoth didn't know that Stern was aware of his identity!

Skardoth leaned back behind his desk and smiled blandly. "It is probably obvious to you that the Federation has, for some reason of its own, framed you on this charge." He smiled softly. "Naturally, I don't know why you've been condemned to Earth, but that doesn't concern the Group. We do know that you have been condemned illegally—so you will want to escape.

"What we have in mind is this: we will get away from this planet after we have taken it over. We will force the Condelari Federation to recognize us as an independent government. Are you with us?"

Stern forced a grin. "I'm with you."

"Excellent," said Skardoth. "We will have use for you." He put out his hand, and Stern, feeling trapped, took it.

"Good luck, John Stern," said Skardoth.

It was that last remark that finally made up Stern's mind; Skardoth shouldn't have known his first name! He shouldn't have known any part of the name that the Council of Judges had assigned to Yorkan Varr. Since he did, it meant that Matt Skardoth knew more than he should!

It was nearly three weeks before "John Stern" figured out a method of attack. If he could only get his hands on Matt Skardoth, he'd be able to prove that he, Yorkan Varr, was innocent of the crime of which he had been accused. And, possibly, he would be able to prove that the others of the Group were innocent, too.

Skardoth's plan was quite evident. Earth was a Class Q-1 civilization; it bordered on being admitted to the Federation. But Skardoth had been on Earth for five hundred years; the short-lived Earthmen had no idea that their destinies had been controlled by a being whose life span was nearly ten times as long as theirs.

Yorkan Varr—he tried to think of himself as John Stern now—was, like all citizens of the Federation, extremely long-lived. He would easily live to be a thousand—perhaps more. But the Exiles had, in the last few centuries, taken advantage of the Earthmen—a fact which had not been communicated to the Council of Judges. The Council evidently thought that the Earth was still in the lower classes of civilization; they didn't realize that Earthmen had already built interplanetary spaceships and might yet build interstellar vehicles.

Stern felt he could trust the girl, Elizabeth. She seemed to be aware that something was wrong, but she didn't quite seem to know what.

One night, Skardoth assigned both of them to go out to Long Island to take a look at the Nuclear Power Plant there. He wanted data on the new nucleolectric energies that had been developed.

Elizabeth was supposedly a nuclear scientist assigned to the Long Island plant; for twelve years she had built up her identity there.

But, as they approached the installation, she slowed the car and parked it alongside the road.

"What's the idea, Liz?" he asked.

"There's something troubling you Johnny. What is it?"

He looked at her bleakly. "You really want to know?"

She nodded and started to say something, but before she could answer, he said: "Okay; I'll tell you. We—you and I, and all the others of the Group—are being led by the nose. Skardoth is using us for his own purposes."

Rapidly, he explained what he knew about the leader of the group. When he had finished, he held his breath. If the girl didn't believe him—

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "I know," she said softly. "I've known for a long time. So have most of the others. We knew he was controlling us." Then her blue eyes flashed hatred. "But we didn't know he was framing us. We knew that what he was doing was wrong, but we didn't realize that it was Skardoth who got us into this."

"Then you believe me?" he asked.

She turned to him, her deep blue eyes looking straight into his. Her voice was low and whispering when she spoke. "Of course I believe you, you idiot! But what could I do? I've been on this planet a long time; nearly seventy years. I know what Skardoth wants. He wants to take over this planet and then take over the Galaxy. These people—the Earthlings—have more potential power than any other race in the universe. Given another century, they'll outdo us in almost every field. If they're on the side of the Condelari Federation, we'll be all right; but if they're on the side of Skardoth, then the Federation is helpless."

Stern nodded. "That's right. The Federation has misjudged these people. The Council of Judges still thinks that they're stupid barbarians—and they're not."

He took a deep breath. "We're in one hell of a jam, Liz; we've both been framed for something we haven't done. I know that Skardoth is responsible for the whole thing. He must be much older than he looks. How old would you say he was?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Middle-aged, I'd say. Maybe nine hundred years."

Stern shook his head. "More than that. I've been keeping tabs on what has happened here on Earth for the past few centuries. By careful analysis, I've spotted the first time that Skardoth came to this planet." He reached out and touched her hand. "He's been here for more than twelve hundred years."

Her eyes narrowed. "That means that he's had some method of escape all these years. He's got an interstellar ship planted somewhere."

"Sure. He framed all of us; he's managed to get all of us sent here as criminals. Liz, I tell you, he's using us!"

She started to say something, but, at that moment, the car radio broke into life. A harsh voice said:

"Very pretty. I'm sorry to have to deal with both of you this way."

It was as though Skardoth's voice had galvanized him into action. Stern heard the voice, and, before it had finished, he had opened the door of the car and flung himself out.

He tried to push Elizabeth out the other way, but it was too late. Just as John Stern tumbled out of the car, a greenish-yellow cloud of radiance appeared in the front seat for a fraction of a second. When it faded, Elizabeth was gone.

Stern picked himself up from the gravel at the side of the road and looked at the car. It was empty. It looked like any Terrestrial automobile. As he stood up, he heard a faint voice over the radio.

"... too bad that he wasn't in the focus of the ray...."

There was no more.

He knew, then, what had happened. Skardoth had had a voice pickup in the car. As soon as he had heard a confession from both of them, Skardoth had used a built-in transport field.

Stern stood there for a moment, looking at the empty car. He'd been lucky; if the transport field hadn't hit Elizabeth squarely, she would have been completely disintegrated. As it was, Elizabeth had been caught in the field, but Stern had not. She had been transported to wherever the field focus was located, and Skardoth assumed that John Stern had been half in and half out of the field, and had been dissipated into nothingness.

Stern grinned. That had been Matt Skardoth's last mistake.

State Patrol Car 331, cruising along the Montauk-Manhattan highway, spotted a lone figure standing at the side of the road. He raised his hands and flagged them down.

Sergeant Riley applied the brakes and slowed down. His partner, Patrolman Garetti, eased his .38 out of its holster. It wasn't likely that the man who was flagging them down was dangerous, but there was no use taking a chance. Patrol Car 331 slowed to a stop.

Sergeant Riley leaned out of the car window.

"What seems to be the trouble?" he asked.

John Stern pointed with one hand while the other hand touched the sergeant's neck. "My car," Stern said distinctly, "was stolen down there."

But, the instant his fingers had touched the police officer's neck, that officer had become a slave of his own nervous system.

"Okay; climb in," said Sergeant Riley.

Stern went around to the other side of the car, and Patrolman Garetti said: "Hey! Where are we supposed...."

But he was too late: Stern's hand had already touched his neck. Patrolman Garetti didn't argue in the least when the Sergeant said: "Okay, Garetti; let's get to Manhattan as fast as possible. Use the siren."

John Stern leaned back and relaxed while the police car headed toward Manhattan with its siren wide open. The cars ahead of them pulled over to the side as the State Police roared down the road toward Manhattan.

The road was fairly empty, that late at night. They sped toward the city at eighty miles an hour, roared down the open stretches of flat roadway into the city.

The highway crowded up in Queens, but they hit the Triboro, crossed over into Manhattan, and moved on down Fifth Avenue toward 582.

"Okay," Stern said, as they reached Fiftieth Street. "Cut the siren and pull up outside 582. I'll take care of it from here."

The officers did as ordered. When Stern got out, he said, "Forget all about what has happened. Go back to your beat."

The policemen pulled away without a sound.

Stern looked up at the building. There was still a light on the eighteenth floor.

But—how could he get up there? The front door was locked. If he broke in, he'd have to deal with another group of cops—and that was too risky.

What could he do? To get to the eighteenth floor, he'd have to get into the building, open the elevator, go....

Stern shook his head. It wasn't worth it. He flexed his muscles and looked up the side of the building. It wasn't too high: it could be done. Stern squeezed his fingers together and began the climb up the sheer side of the great building.

It was nearly half an hour later that John Stern pulled himself up outside the eighteenth floor of the suite occupied by Matt Skardoth.

Hanging precariously by his fingertips, he looked inside the brightly illuminated window. Inside, he saw Matt Skardoth watching Elizabeth Kirk, who was tightly bound to a chair in the corner of the room.

"It's too bad your hero's been killed," Skardoth said. "Because now there's no one to rescue you."

"What are you going to do to me, Skardoth?" he heard the girl ask.

"Unfortunately, you've found out too much about my plans, you and that John Stern. If word got back to the Federation—" Skardoth shook his head. "No. I'll have to silence you the way I did him."

Stern clamped his lips together. So I'm silenced, eh? He tightened his grasp on the ledge, pulled himself up, kicked at the window.

The glass burst inward in a tinkling shower. Stern catapulted himself through the shattered window, and in one quick bound he leaped on Skardoth and knocked the big man sprawling to the floor.

Skardoth rolled over and bashed a fist upward. Stern gave with the blow, sucked in his breath, and raked his fist into Skardoth's teeth.

Skardoth tried to stand up, but another fist smashed into him, smearing his nose across his face like so much putty. Another fist, and then another hit the dark faced man. He collapsed as though he had been clubbed by a baseball bat.

Stern stood over the fallen man, clenching and reclenching his fists. He could hardly hear his own words, but he knew they were words of imprecation.

After a moment, he turned, to look at Elizabeth.

He walked over and took the magneclamps off her wrists.

"What are you going to do now, Johnny?" she asked as she flexed her wrists.

Stern looked bleakly at the mangled figure on the floor.

"I'd like to kill him. It's because of him that you and I have been condemned to die here." Then he stopped and grinned. "On the other hand, if we could find the ship he's been using to get from here to the stars, we could find a little world of our own; we could—"

She stood up then, and smiled at him. "Yorkan Varr, we know you're innocent. There's no need for you to run."

"We?" he asked. "Who's we? I simply did my duty; I only—"

"Shhhh!" she interrupted. "The Council of Judges has known for a long time that this planet needed correction. But, according to the law, the Judges couldn't interrupt. They sent me first, and then you. It took both of us to do the job."

Stern heard a slight hum outside the window of the eighteenth floor suite. When he looked out, he saw the vague outline of an interstellar patrol ship. A man in a Patrol uniform stuck his head in the window.

"I understand we have a prisoner to pick up," he said.

Stern put one arm around the girl and gestured with his free hand. "There he is, chum. Pick him up."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUTCAST OF THE STARS ***

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Outcast Of The Stars

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