by Galaxy Publishing Corp.

* * * * *

Printed in U.S.A.

I

Pariah

The air of the city's cheapest flophouse was thick with the smells of
harsh antiseptic and unwashed bodies. The early Christmas snowstorm had
driven in every bum who could steal or beg the price of admission, and
the long rows of cots were filled with fully clothed figures. Those who
could afford the extra dime were huddled under thin, grimy blankets.

The pariah who had been Dr. Daniel Feldman enjoyed no such luxury. He
tossed fitfully on a bare cot, bringing his face into the dim light. It
had been a handsome face, but now the black stubble of beard lay over
gaunt features and sunken cheeks. He looked ten years older than his
scant thirty-two, and there were the beginnings of a snarl at the
corners of his mouth. Clothes that had once been expensive were wrinkled
and covered with grime that no amount of cleaning could remove. His
tall, thin body was awkwardly curled up in a vain effort to conserve
heat and one of his hands instinctively clutched at his tiny bag of
possessions.

He stirred again, and suddenly jerked upright with a protest already
forming on his lips. The ugly surroundings registered on his eyes, and
he stared suspiciously at the other cots. But there was no sign that
anyone had been trying to rob him of his bindle or the precious bag of
cheap tobacco.

He started to relax back onto the couch when a sound caught his
attention, even over the snoring of the others. It was a low wail, the
sound of a man who can no longer control himself.

Feldman swung to the cot on his left as the moan hacked off. The man
there was well fed and clean-shaven, but his face was gray with
sickness. He was writhing and clutching his stomach, arching his back
against the misery inside him.

"Space-stomach?" Feldman diagnosed.

He had no need of the weak answering nod. He'd treated such cases
several times in the past. The disease was usually caused by the absence
of gravity out in space, but it could be brought on later from abuse of
the weakened internal organs, such as the intake of too much bad liquor.
The man must have been frequenting the wrong space-front bars.

Now he was obviously dying. Violent peristaltic contractions seemed to
be tearing the intestines out of him, and the paroxysms were coming
faster. His eyes darted to Feldman's tobacco sack and there was animal
appeal in them.

Feldman hesit