Space Prison (originally published as "The Survivors") by Tom Godwin Page A

Chiara of the dead past smiled for the last time at Lake.
      "Just like a damned fool intern…"
      That was all, then, and the chamber was suddenly very quiet. Lake stood up to leave, and to speak the words that Chiara could never hear:
      "We're going to need you and miss you—Doctor."
     
      He found Bemmon in the food storage cavern, supervising the work of two teen-age boys with critical officiousness although he was making no move to help them. At sight of Lake he hurried forward, the ingratiating smile sliding across his face.
      "I'm glad you're back," he said. "I had to take charge when Anders got sick and he had everything in such a mess. I've been working day and night to undo his mistakes and get the work properly under way again."
      Lake looked at the two thin-faced boys who had taken advantage of the opportunity to rest. They leaned wearily against the heavy pole table Bemmon had had them moving, their eyes already dull with the incipient sickness and watching him in mute appeal.
      "Have you obeyed Chiara's order?" he asked.
      "Ah—no," Bemmon said. "I felt it best to ignore it."
      "Why?" Lake asked.
      "It would be a senseless waste of our small supply of fruit and vegetable foods to give them to people already dying. I'm afraid"—the ingratiating smile came again—"we've been letting him exercise an authority he isn't entitled to. He's really hardly more than a medical student and his diagnoses are only guesses."
      "He's dead," Lake said flatly. "His last order will be carried out."
      He looked from the two tired boys to Bemmon, contrasting their thinness and weariness with the way Bemmon's paunch still bulged outward and his jowls still sagged with their load of fat.
      "I'll send West down to take over in here," he said to Bemmon. "You come with me. You and I seem to be the only two in good health here and there's plenty of work for us to do."
      The fawning expression vanished from Bemmon's face. "I see," he said. "Now that I've turned Anders's muddle into organization, you'll hand my authority over to another of your favorites and demote me back to common labor?"
      "Setting up work quotas for sick and dying people isn't organization," Lake said. He spoke to the two boys, "Both of you go lie down. West will find someone else." Then to Bemmon, "Come with me. We're both going to work at common labor."
      They passed by the cave where Bemmon slept. Two boys were just going into it, carrying armloads of dried grass to make a mattress under Bemmon's pallet. They moved slowly, heavily. Like the two boys in the food storage cave they were dull-eyed with the beginning of the sickness.
      Lake stopped, to look more closely into the cave and verify something else he thought he had seen: Bemmon had discarded the prowler skins on his bed and in their place were soft wool blankets; perhaps the only unpatched blankets the Rejects possessed.
      "Go back to your caves," he said to the boys. "Go to bed and rest."
      He looked at Bemmon. Bemmon's eyes flickered away, refusing to meet his.
      "What few blankets we have are for babies and the very youngest children," he said. His tone was coldly unemotional but he could not keep his fists from clenching at his sides. "You will return them at once and sleep on animal skins, as all the men and women do. And if you want grass for a mattress you will carry it yourself, as even the young children do."
      Bemmon made no answer, his face a sullen red and hatred shining in the eyes that still refused to meet Lake's.
      "Gather up the blankets and return them," Lake said. "Then come on up to the central cave. We have a lot of work to do."
      He could feel Bemmon's gaze burning against his back as he turned away and he thought of what John Prentiss had once said:
      "I know he's no good but he never has guts enough to go quite far enough to give me an excuse to whittle him down."
     
      Barber's men arrived the next day,