_The prize was sealed, its contents unknown.
Yet scavengers from a dozen barbaric Moons;
adventurers from nameless, semi-explored
asteroids, arrived for the deathless
auction.... To bid on Roper's notorious loot._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They were bringing in the prisoners who had escaped from Phobos. Sand
skimmer ambulances had raced to the spaceport outside the terraced
Martian city and waited. Dust devils danced on the wide, wind-whipped
Martian plains. Grannar of the Police and his silent companion examined
each body as it was lowered from the rescue ship.
Death anywhere is an ugly business. On Mars, you get used to bodies
that never rot. Deep-freeze temperatures hold down decay bacteria, and
the dry, cold air quickly dessicates the tissue. Bodies turn into
mummies that look and weigh like so much shredded wheat. But these
corpses were worse--they were meaningless parodies that might never
have been men. In primal disgust, Torry studied each one in turn, then
shuddered and shook his head.
Grannar was tough minded, or stronger stomached. Police routines had
taught him not to shudder.
"You can get used to this," he observed, enjoying Torry's revulsion.
"Since you'd known Roper, we thought you could help us identify him.
Thanks for coming along."
"Had I a choice?" asked Torry bitterly.
The policeman's laugh was brutal, explosive. "There is always a choice.
You can do as you're told or be dragged in screaming."