The Addicts
By WILLIAM MORRISON
Illustrated by ED. ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Wives always try to cure husbands of
bad habits, even on lonely asteroids!
You must understand that Palmer loved his wife as much as ever, or hewould never have thought of his simple little scheme at all. It wasentirely for her own good, as he had told himself a dozen times inthe past day. And with that he stilled whatever qualms of consciencehe might otherwise have had. He didn't think of himself as beingsomething of a murderer.
She was sitting at the artificial fireplace, a cheerful relic ofancient days, reading just as peacefully as if she had been back homeon Mars, instead of on this desolate outpost of space. She had adjustedquickly to the loneliness and the strangeness of this life—to theabsence of friends, the need for conserving air, the strange feeling ofan artificial gravity that varied slightly at the whim of impurities inthe station fuel. To everything, in fact, but her husband.
She seemed to sense his eyes on her, for she looked up and smiled."Feeling all right, dear?" she asked.
"Naturally. How about you?"
"As well as can be expected."
"Not very good, then."
She didn't reply, and he thought, She hates to admit it, but shereally envies me. Well, I'll fix it so that she needn't any more. Andhe stared through the thick, transparent metal window at the beauty ofthe stars, their light undimmed by dust or atmosphere.
The stories told about the wretchedness of the lighthouse keepers wholived on asteroids didn't apply at all to this particular bit of cosmicrock. Life here had been wonderful, incredibly satisfying. At least ithad been that way for him. And now it would be the same way for hiswife as well.
He would have denied it hotly if you had accused him of findingher repulsive. But to certain drunks, the sober man or woman is anoffense, and Palmer was much more than a drunk. He was a marak addict,and in the eyes of the marak fiends, all things and all people werewonderful, except those who did not share their taste for the drug. Thelatter were miserable, depraved creatures, practically subhuman.
Of course that was not the way most of them put it. Certainly it wasnot the way Palmer did. He regarded his wife, he told himself, as anunfortunate individual whom he loved very much, one whom it was hisduty to make happy. That her new-found happiness would also hastenher death was merely an unfortunate coincidence. She was sure to dieanyway, before long, so why not have her live out her last days in thepeace and contentment that only marak could bring?
Louise herself would have had an answer to that, if he had ever put thequestion to her. He was careful never to do so.
She laid the book aside and looked up at him again. She said, "Jim,darling, do you think you could get the television set working again?"
"Not without a mesotron rectifier."
"Even the radio would be a comfort."
"It wouldn't do any good, any way. Too much static from both Mars andEarth this time of year."
That was the beauty of the marak, he thought. It changed his mood,and left him calm and in full command of his faculties, able to handleany problem that came up. He himself, of course, missed neither theradio nor the television, and he never touched th