"It is the little death," they whispered. "When that
yellow mist starts creeping, you'll wish you were
dead, sir." Gavin Murdock, hardened manhunter, coldly
eyed the evil miasma rising through the mystery
spaceship and braced himself for unguessable horror....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Martian sniffed. "Frankly, Mr. Murdock, your account of yourself is
laconic to say the least."
Gavin Murdock grunted, his eyes wary and unblinking. He didn't reply.
The Martian raised his eyes from the documents spread on his glassite
desk. He gave the sandy-haired Murdock a shrewd penetrating glance and
smiled dryly.
"Of course, we get very few men in the slave trade who care to talk
about themselves. We take that into consideration, Mr. Murdock. But an
astro-engineer of your talents...." He glanced again at the papers on
his desk.
Murdock's pulse hammered suddenly in his throat. He swallowed dryly,
but he still didn't interrupt.
"This discharge," the Martian went on. "I see you were employed as
first assistant-engineer on the luxury liner _Cosmos_. That's United
Spaceway's crack ship. Would you care to tell me, Mr. Murdock, what
persuaded you to apply for this post on the _Nova_?"
"Blacklisted," Mr. Murdock said succinctly. "Belted the old man in the
nose. I've been on the beach here in Venusport ever since. None of the
shipping lines'll touch me." He lapsed into silence again.
The Martian drummed long white fingers on the desk top.
"You realize, Mr. Murdock, that when you sign the _Nova's_ articles
you forfeit your citizenship on Terra? The Earth Congress issued a
proclamation to the effect that any Terran employed in the slave
trade...."
"What d'you expect me to do?" Murdock interrupted with a wry
expression. He was a tall angular man in his early thirties. "Rot here
on Venus? I'm not thrilled at taking a third's rating aboard a Jovian
slaver. But it's a job."
The Martian still hesitated, doubt registering on his paper-white,
sharply-chiseled features.
At length he said, "Very well," in a dry tone. "You'll have to go to
the Commissioner's and sign the articles this afternoon. The _Nova_
sails tomorrow. I'll give you your orders in writing."
But he made no move to do so.
Gavin Murdock stiffened imperceptibly, an alarm pealing in his brain.
The Martian, he sensed, was stalling. For what?
* * * * *
The space patrols, Murdock knew, had been making things plenty hot for
the slavers. The Empire had outlawed the slave trade three years ago.
Her spacers were stamping out the traffic in Jovian Dawn Men which
flowed between Jupiter and Venus where slavery was still legalized.
Decadent the Empire might be, but she still controlled space. Any
slaver caught with his half-human cattle beyond Venus' thousand mile
limit was treated as a pirate.
The Martian was saying, "You understand, Mr. Murdock, there's no
regular salary connected with this job, but as third assistant-engineer
you'll be entitled to a one-twentieth share of the profits of each
voyage."
Gavin nodded. His glance flicked about the blank walls. He felt
suddenly like an animal in a trap.
The offices of Josiah Cabot, slaver, of whom the Martian was the
business representative in Venusport, were on the eighty-seventh
floor, well up in the swirling cloud blanket which sheathed the second
planet like a glove. The offices were windowless and sound-proof.
With an effort, Gavin put down the panic rising in his throat. It was
ridiculous to think they could do anything to him in a modern office
building here in Venusport.
A buzzer on the desk whirred. The Martian leaned forward and snapped a
switch. A girl's voice said, "There's a call for you on the televisor,
Mr. Trev. It's the--"
"Switch it to the radiophone," the Martian interrupted. He picked up
the phone. "Trev speaking."
Gavin could hear the metallic rattle of a voice in the old fashioned
instrument.
Trev said, "Yes ... yes ... thank you," at intervals, and hung up. His
black eyes were inscrutable. He turned back to Gavin, saying, "I've
been waiting for that call, Mr. Murdock."
He brought his hand into sight above the desk. Gavin Murdock found
himself staring into the muzzle of a wicked poisoned-needle automatic!
"Clasp your hands behind your neck, Mr. Murdock. That was United
Spaceways. They have no record of your ever having been employed by
them. That was a very foolish lie, Mr. Murdock. Please submit yourself
to a search."
Gavin drew a long breath. "You can save yourself the trouble. The
discharge is forged. I haven't had a ship in three years."
"Stand up."
Gavin unfolded himself awkwardly and rose to his full six feet, two
inches. He was clad in plain gray shorts and blouse. A Terran of
Scotch-American descent, his face was thin, hollow-cheeked, freckled.
His sandy hair had been close-cropped in the military fashion. His
pale blue eyes were as bright and restless as a hawk's. He had a thin,
arched nose, a tight-lipped mouth and a square jaw. He made no attempt
to protest further.
The Martian came around the desk to approach Gavin from behind and jam
the needle gun against his back. "Don't move!"
"Hell," said Gavin, "I'm not even breathing."
He heard the panel, which led into the outer office, squeak as it was
slid back. A new voice asked, "What's the trouble, Trev?" It was a
cold, clipped voice, yet the words were strangely blurred.
Gavin could feel his palms grow damp against the back of his neck. He
wanted to whip around, but the Martian still had the dart-gun clamped
against his spine.