COSMIC CASTAWAY
By STANLEY MULLEN
"You aren't human, Bell. And you're not a
robot. What are you?" Bell pondered the query
slowly, cautiously, with his semi-mechanical
superbrain ... a brain that Plutonians dubbed
the most deadly and dangerous in the universe.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Atmosphere in the ticket agent's office seemed thicker and warmer thanusual, but the disturbing factors were supercharged emotions, notjammed pressure-gauges or thermal adjusters. Not all the emotions werehuman; but they were real enough, both to Bell and to the ticket agent.
"I know all about you, Bell," the agent said, looking over thehalf-man curiously, with a hint of vicious resentment. Like many minorfunctionaries, the ticket agent took the troubles of his employerspersonally, and Mines, Inc. on Pluto was a subsidiary of the Power andTransport Trust. "Sure, you think you have return passage coming toyou. Hasn't the company been more than generous? Actually, it must havecost a fortune to patch you up."
Like many minor functionaries the ticket agent studied the half-man with a hint of vicious resentment.
"It did," Bell admitted. "But that's not the problem. I'm not claimingfree passage. I have money to pay."
Bell was half-man, half-robot, the result of one of those hideousaccidents never mentioned in the Company's much-vaunted Public Reports.Technologically, even aesthetically, he was a work of art, but hisown mother would not have known him. Item by item, his appearance wascuriously humanoid, but no elasticity of definition could make himhuman. Every vital organ was partly or wholly artificial, 64% of hisbody being either reclaimed or synthetic tissue. The face was a mask ofstainless steel, washed to flesh color by aluminum bronze tinted towardcopper, and the brain behind it was not the one he was born with.
Closing his ledger with a bang the agent snorted. "So what? I don'tcare if you own half of Pluto. You're still out of luck for passagehome. We're booked solid ... six months ahead."
"You're a liar," Bell stated flatly, "and even if you were a good one,I know better. There've been four cancellations by miners who couldn'tpass physical for space. What's the gag?"
Underground Pluto is an interesting place, but it would be pleasantonly for a race of troglodytes. Heated and pressurized air isuncomfortably dense; light is artificial and there is a sense ofconstant vibration from distant atomic boring. No one ever quite getsused to the endless maze of galleries in subsurface cities, or to thejarring quiver of vibrations in octaves above and below audible sound.Worst of all is the deadly isolation from civilized mankind, and evenhardy miners accustomed to the black pits of Luna and Ganymede requireweeks of readjustment before they can work. For himself, Bell had neverobjected to the working and living conditions, but he no longer worked,and Pluto was no place to spend his life.
"Are you sure you could pass the physical?" The ticket agent shrugged."Don't bother me about it." With a type of insolence not uncommonin his breed, he attempted to turn away. Bell reached, got theman's collar into a strangling tourniquet around his throat. Pawingfrantically, the agent tried to release himself but Bell appli