THE LAST TRESPASSER
By JIM HARMON
There was nothing wrong with
him that a Rider could not cure ...
and the rougher, the better!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They would not believe Malloy was alone in there, in the padded cell.That made it worse.
Malloy was in his month for lying on his stomach to avoid bed sores. Hewas walking from Peoria, Illinois, to Detroit, Michigan, currently andhe had just reached Chicago. It was fine to see State Street again, andthe jewelry stores stuck in the alcoves of churches with the handsomelybarred windows.
A man in Army-surplus green with an old library book was asking forcarfare to a hiring hall when they began opening the door.
Malloy rolled over on one elbow. It was peculiar. They hadn't done thatfor three years.
Two of them came inside, thick men with disinterested faces.
"Try no sudden moves," one of them advised him.
"We will anticipate you," the other one added.
Malloy went through the unfamiliar process of standing up. He lookedat two men. "I wouldn't try anything against the four of you. I'm notthat crazy."
"Time for an interrogation, Malloy," the orderly said. "Come with us."
Malloy fell in between them and left the padded cell, frowning.
"What kind of an interrogation?" he asked them.
"What other kind?" one countered. "A sanity hearing."
He felt his eyebrows jerk. His sanity? He thought that had beenestablished long ago. Or his lack of it.
Malloy remembered the doctor. He hadn't had much else to do for severalyears.
He was Dr. Heirson, a graying man with starched face and collar. Butthe younger man sitting with Heirson behind the broad, translucent deskwas a stranger to Malloy. He seemed to be a comic strip drawing, all instraight lines.
"Yes, sir."
"Step forward, Michael," Heirson said.
Malloy stepped forward. It had been a long time since he had beenallowed to travel so far.
"Now relax, Michael," the doctor continued, leaning forward andgrinning hideously. "All you have to do is tell me the truth."
"No, I don't, Doctor. I'm under no compulsion to tell you the truth.I'm perfectly capable of lying if it would do me any good."
"Hush that, Michael. You must not try to make believe you can lie. Iknow you tell me only the truth."
"All right," Malloy said, exhaling deeply. "Believe that I speak onlythe truth if you like. But remember, I just told you that I'm a liarand that must be true."
Heirson blinked in watery confusion. He was obviously senile; only theold man's Rider kept him from coming apart at his mental seams.
The angle-faced man spoke into Heirson's ear. The old doctor continuedto blink for a moment, then faced Malloy, the lines of his face drawninto an asterisk.
"What? You mean to tell me that you don't have an inner voice thaturges you to tell the truth at all times?"
"No," Malloy explained, "I do not hear voices."
"You don't?"
"Never."
"And there is no inner sense that tells you when somebody is plottingagainst you?"
"Absolutely not."
"And when y