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The crosses would rot and decay; the metal, rust and decompose. The bones might fossilize and remain
to give a hint as to what happened. Their own records, sealed away, might be found.
But none of that mattered. If nothing at all was ever found, the planet itself, the whole planet, would be
their monument.
And Petersen lay down to die amid their victory.
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Fred Pohl changes titles more frequently than most editors do, and in some cases drove me to
distraction by doing so. In this case, though, my own title wasThe Last Tool, and once again the editorial
change was for the better, so I kept FOUNDING FATHER. (I hate when Fred changes me for the
better, but he won't stop.)
By 1967 it had been ten years since I had switched to nonfiction, and ten years since I had sold anything
to John Campbell.
John was just rounding out his third decade as editor ofAstounding. As the 19608 opened, however, he
changed its name toAnalog, and I had never had any fiction in the magazine in its new incarnation.
So I wrote EXILE TO HELL and sent it in to John. He took it, thank goodness, and it was a great
pleasure to appear in the pages of the magazine again, in the May 1968 issue, even if it was just a
short-short.
EXILE TO HELL
The Russians, said Dowling, in his precise voice, used to send prisoners to Siberia in the days before
space travel had become common. The French used Devil's Island for the purpose. The British sailed
them off to Australia.
He considered the chessboard carefully and his hand hesitated briefly over the bishop.
Parkinson, at the other side of the chess board, watched the pattern of the pieces absently. Chess was,
of course, the professional game of computer programmers, but, under the circumstances, he lacked
enthusiasm. By rights, he felt with some annoyance, Dowling should have been even worse off; he was
programming the prosecution's case.
There was, of course, a tendency for the programmer to take over some of the imagined characteristics
of the computer-the unemotionality, the imperviousness to anything but logic. Dowling reflected that in his
precise hair-part and in the restrained elegance of his clothing.
Parkinson, who preferred to program the defense in the law cases in which he was involved, also
preferred to be deliberately careless in the minor aspects of his costume.
He said, You mean exile is a well-established punishment and therefore not particularly cruel.
No, itis particularly cruel, but also itis well-established, and nowadays it has become the perfect
deterrent.
Dowling moved the bishop and did not look upward. Parkinson, quite involuntarily, did.
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Of course, he couldn't see anything. They were indoors, in the comfortable modem world tailored to
human needs, carefully protected against the raw environment. Out there, the night would be bright with
its illumination.
When had he last seen it? Not for a long time. It occurred to him to wonder what phase it was in right
now.
Full? Gleaming? Or was it in its crescent phase? Was it a bright fingernail of light low in the sky?
By rights it should be a lovely sight. Once it had been. But that had been centuries ago, before space
travel had become common and cheap, and before the surroundings all about them had grown
sophisticated and controlled. Now the lovely light in the sky had become a new and more horrible Devil's
Island hung in space.
No one even used its name any longer, out of sheer distaste. It was It. Or it was less than that, just
a silent, upward movement-of the head.
Parkinson said, You might have allowed me to program the case against exile generally.
Why? It couldn't have affected the result.
Not this one, Dowling. But it might have affected future cases. Future punishments might be commuted
to the death sentence.
For someone guilty of equipment damage? You're dreaming.
It was an act of blind anger. There was intent to harm a human being, granted; but there was no intent
to harm equipment.
Nothing; it means nothing. Lack of intent is no excuse in such cases. You know that.
Itshould be an excuse. That's my point; the one I
wanted to make. Parkinson advanced a pawn now, to cover his knight. Dowling considered. You're
trying to hang onto the queen's attack, Parkinson, and I'm not going to let you. -Let's see, now. And
while he pondered he said, These are not primitive times, Parkinson. We live in a crowded world with
no margin for error. As small a thing as a blown-out consistor could endanger a sizable fraction of our
population. When anger endangers and subverts a power line, it's a serious thing.
I don't question that
You seemed to be doing so, when you were constructing the defense program.
I was not. Look, when Jenkins' laser beam cut through the Field-warp, I myself was as close to death
as anyone.A quarter hour's additional delay would have meant my end, too, and I'm completely aware of
that. My point is only that exile is not the proper punishment!
He tapped his finger on the chessboard for emphasis, and Dowling caught the queen before it went over.
Adjusting, not moving, he mumbled.
Dowling's eyes went from piece to piece and he continued to hesitate. You're wrong, Parkinson. Itis
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