Plague of Pythons

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"HEY, CHANDLER," said Lany Grantz, the jailer, "I can get fifty to one for a conviction. What d'you think?"

"Go to hell," said Chandler.

"Come on. Let me in on it. You got any surprises for the judge?"

Chandler didn't answer. He didn't even look at the jailer. A man who was on his way to hell didn't have to worry about what people thought of him.

"Now, look," said the jailer, "you could maybe use a friend or two before long. What do you say? Listen, I can get five for one if you're going to plead guilty. Are you?"

"Why should I? I'm innocent."

"Oh, yeah, all right, but if you plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court No? The hell with you, then."

The jailer stood in the doorway, picking his nose and looking at Chandler with dislike. That was all right. Chandler was getting used to it.

It was hard to believe that this was the late 20th century ... the third decade of the Atomic Age, the era of spaceflight. Of course, there hadn't been much of that lately. Chandler wondered what the Mars expedition must be thinking these days, waiting for the relief-and-rotation ship that must be a year or two overdue by now. Assuming they were still alive, of course ...

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