Deep inside the long gallery was a huge, vaulted chamber. Here, Denver
found what he sought. There was no back entrance. The mine was a trap
that had closed on him and Darbor.
Old Martian workings, yes. But whatever the Martians had sought and
delved from the mooncrust was gone. Layered veins had petered out,
were exhausted, empty. Some glittering, crystalline smears remained in
the crevices but the crystals were dull and life-less. Denver bent
close, sensed familiarity. The substance was not unknown. He wetted a
finger and probed with it, rubbed again and tested for taste.
The taste was sharp and bitter. As bitter as his disappointment. It
was all a grim joke. Valuable enough once to be used as money in the
old days on earth. But hardly valuable enough, then, even in real
quantity, to be worth the six lives it had cost up to now--counting
his and Darbor's as already lost. First, Laird Martin, with his last
tragic thoughts of a tiny girl on Earth, now orphaned. Then the three
men down the slope, hideous in their bulged and congealing death.
Himself and Darbor next on the list, with not much time to go. All for
a few crystals of--Salt!
* * * * *
The end was as viciously ironic as the means had been brutal, but
greed is an ugly force. It takes no heed of men and their brief,
futile dreams.
Denver shrugged and rejoined his small garrison. The girl, in spite of
the comradeship of shared danger, was as greedy as the others outside.
Instinctively, Denver knew that, and he found the understanding in
himself to pity her.
"Are they still out there?" he asked needlessly.