TEPONDICON
By CARL JACOBI
He was not the savior-type. He certainly did not
crave martyrdom. Yet there was treasure beyond
price in these darkened plague-cities of Ganymede,
if a man could but measure up to it.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
By seven o'clock, Earth-time, I could distinctly see the first plaguecity of Profaldo. In the grey light it lay there before me, a vagueopalescent aura radiating from its spires and minarets. The three roadsthat crossed the flat converged on the city to meet at a single narrowrunway.
I drove the tracto-car down into a little gully, climbed out and tooka second look through my magnoscope. The flat was deserted, as it wellshould be at this hour, and the only sign of life was a high-flyingtok, circling slowly.
It took me only five minutes to make preparations for my entrance intoProfaldo. The carefully wound coil of volocized wire slipped downneatly under my tunic. Suspended from my left shoulder was a haversack,innocent appearing, but containing one of the seven transmitting sets,also a complete set of tools. I removed three of the white pelletsfrom the little glass vial in my pocket and swallowed them. And, foremergency, I slid a heat pistol into another pocket.
Then I set out across the flat. Distance was deceptive, but I hadcalculated fairly closely, and an hour later saw me pacing up therunway to the entrance of Profaldo.
The guard in the cubicle stared when I stood before him. "You're not acitizen here," he said. "Do you know what place this is?"
"I know very well," I said. "Here are my papers, signed by the HighGanymedian Council. Let me pass, please."
The gate slid back, and an instant later I was inside the city.
Profaldo! Plague-ridden, feared, legendary! Like its six sister cities,the place was known throughout the System as a pest-hole, tenantedby doomed citizenry whose very futility of life made a mockery ofeverything decent and law-abiding.
Twenty yards down the street, and I saw indeed that the city was onevast slum. Gambling holes-in-the-wall stood cheek by jowl with sinisterdrink shops, all of them roaring full blast. A drooling fog that dimmedthe intermittent blue street lights gave a grotesque unreality to thethoroughfare.
Here and there were groups of the inhabitants. Only a few showedvisible signs of the horrible plague,—the greenish, leprous hue to theface and eyes, the disjointed, shambling walk—but I knew that all ofthem had the disease in one or more of its stages.
Following the directions I had memorized so carefully, I went straightdown the street, turned left, then right. Yes, there it was. Aslate-gray building, well out of plumb, with a dingy sign before thedoorway: POWER DIVISION.
I went in. There were no ushers, no reception clerks, only a faintdrone of machinery somewhere below me. A long corridor angled in eitherdirection with marked doors every few feet. The sixth door bore themarking: COMMISSIONER.
Even as I looked upon the room's occupant, I knew that this, my initialstep, would be a success. The man was a toad of flesh with little pigeyes and albino hair. He put down the glass from which he had beenswilling liquor and glared at me. "Complaint department down the hall,"he said. "This is a private office."
I crossed to the chair beside his desk and sat down. "I'm GeorgeDulfay," I said quiet