Fate dealt Ron Jordan grim alternatives ... death by
decree of the Space Patrol, or murder at the hands
of this ruthless Martian pirate.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ron Jordan presented a disgusting sight of an Earthman in the last
stages of dissipation, as he slouched along the single dark street of
Halo City, the sardonically named pirate base on Ceres, Ron's clothing
was dirty and worn, his shoulders hunched carelessly and his arms
dangled by his side. A week's growth of beard was on his face, and his
hair was ragged and unkempt. If he had straightened from his slouch he
would have been an inch over six feet, with a lithe bulk that belied
the height; and despite his unsavory appearance at the present moment,
his gray eyes in the dark face were startlingly clear.
The outward appearance was all a disguise, for Jordan had a mission
here.
From the crude stone buildings on either side of the street came sounds
of drunken laughter, the click of gambling wheels, and occasional
curses as some player lost. And once Jordan saw the thin, blue flash
of an electric pistol. He shrugged, knowing that life was cheap among
these cut-throat pirates of many planets; he'd seen more than a score
of men die in the single month he'd been here.
As he neared the end of the street, one of the doors near him opened
and two men staggered out. One was a bulking Martian with dark,
leathery face and heavy-lidded eyes. The other was an Earthman. The
Martian, a little drunk, stumbled into Jordan and cursed. Jordan
mumbled an apology and tried to move unobtrusively out of the way. At
this, the Martian's lips curved. He turned to his champion and said
contemptuously:
"Listen to him. He apologizes. The scum!" With that word, he struck
Jordan hard across the face with the back of his hand.
Jordan took the blow, falling to the street and cringing. Hot anger
flooded his brain at the insult, and his muscles quivered. However, he
restrained himself, for he had long ago decided that his mission here
could only be accomplished passively. He peered up through eyes that
were dull now, and saw the Martian's hand slide to the pistol in his
belt. Jordan tensed, ready to launch himself up.
But the Martian's companion stopped him when his hand was on the
pistol. "Don't waste a charge on him. Besides he's useful to us around
here--runs errands, cleans out the ships, etc. I think he's a little
touched." He tapped his head significantly, looking pityingly down at
Jordan.
Jordan peered up and allowed his lips to part in an idiotic grin,
revealing teeth and gums that were purplish as though from chewing the
mind-destroying _Eishn_ stems.
"You're right," the Martian said cruelly, "he's an _Eishn_ hound.
People who chew that stuff ought to live. Killing them'd be too
merciful." He kicked Jordan in the ribs, and Jordan took that blow,
too, clenching his teeth tight together. It would not do to make a
stand yet.
He watched the two men move away, and then rose to his feet. It had
been the smartest and safest thing he had done, never to have a pistol
on him. No one was foolish enough to come to this pirate base unarmed,
therefore they all looked upon him as "touched" and harmless. And he
couldn't afford to get into any brawls--yet.
* * * * *
Jordan reached the great hollow space at the end of the street. This
served as a spaceport, with ships of all sizes and designs resting
there in scattered profusion. Pirates came here whenever they pleased,
set down for a day or a week, and then left for places unknown and
unasked. The entire hollow was pretty well concealed between ragged
black cliffs that sheered up sharply on both sides.
Now Jordan moved out among the ships, searching for the one he had
heard had just arrived that morning. Thus he had searched in the month
he had been here, taking a careful look at each new arrival. He was
waiting for _one_ ship only, knowing it would be only a matter of time
until it set down here. He would wait six months, a year, if necessary,
until the _Lucifer_ came. And when it did.... Jordan's lips pressed
into a tight little line, as his eyes became space-cold and vengeful.
Ron Jordan was here to clear his brother, Carl, who had been
sentenced to the Venus prison-swamp for life on a charge of smuggling
Silicytes.[1] That was only a few months ago, and it was a false
charge. Carl Jordan, stranded on Mars, had hired out to the _Lucifer_,
a freighter purportedly scheduled for Earth. Instead, it had headed
out toward Jupiter. It was the age-old shanghai trick. Four others
besides Carl Jordan had been similarly duped. The owner and captain, a
Martian named Tarnuff, explained that they'd be well paid upon reaching
Callisto; and the men agreed, including Jordan. Then, reaching the
asteroids, the ship set down on one of the large rocks and Tarnuff
explained that they were to take on a cargo of Silicytes. The men, a
villainous bunch anyway, still agreed--all except Jordan, who rebelled.
[Footnote 1: Entities of silicon found only on the large asteroids.
Almost human in shape and actions, they possess a silicic life-base
rather than carbon, and remain a puzzle to scientists who have studied
them. Being comparatively docile, reasonably intelligent, and tireless
workers, they were originally brought to Earth for purposes of cheap
labor. It was soon discovered, however, that they could be very
dangerous. They possessed a fantastic and insatiable appetite for
_metal_, and if not closely watched would destroy any with which they
came in contact--first corroding it by means of peculiar crystalline
emanations, and then digesting it. After some very calamitous
experiences, the law was passed in 2139 forbidding any Silicytes being
removed from the asteroids, on penalty of death.]
The men found a colony of Silicytes and were herding them into the ship
when a Patrol ship was sighted sweeping upon them. Tarnuff, in return
for Jordan's rebellion, knocked him out and left him on the asteroid.
The Patrol ship pursued the _Lucifer_ but lost it; then returned and
found Carl Jordan there with the Silicytes. He had protested his
innocence in vain, but in view of the circumstances he was only given a
life sentence instead of the usual swift death penalty.
Now Ron Jordan peered around the hollow of the Ceres spaceport. More
than a score of ships rested there. It was very dark but he recognized
most of them. Then, on the far side, he saw it.
As he approached, and made out the design of the ship, his heart
leaped. It might ... it just possibly might be the one! It was a
Martian freighter all right, although rather sleek and slim with a
suggestion of speed. He came nearer. There were the side tubes, four
of them horizontally one above the other, unusually far forward, just
as Carl had described! Ron moved to the rear of the ship. Yes! There
were the triple rear tubes, flexible, resting along the wide fin which
could raise or lower them; they were huge, six feet in diameter, with
smaller auxiliary tubes arranged circularly around them. Ron's heart
was pounding now. If this wasn't the _Lucifer_, it must be a twin! It
was a solid black ship perfectly in keeping with the name.
He walked toward the prow, looking up at the circular ports as he
passed; all were dark, apparently no one being aboard at present. He
reached the prow, looked up for the name and saw it, dimly: _Martian
Belle_. Ron's heart fell in his abrupt disappointment. Wrong, after
all. It meant more weeks, perhaps months, of waiting, while his brother
languished in the black Venus prison-swamp without news.
Ron started to walk away, when an idea occurred to him. He drew out a
tiny torch, the only object he carried on him. It might be dangerous
flashing a light around a strange ship, but he had to chance it. This
ship was so very similar, that he had to be sure.
He clicked the penetro-button and flashed the powerful beam upward,
playing it across the words _Martian Belle_. Then his heart leaped. A
great square patch had been newly painted there! And beneath that patch
his beam picked out the old letters: L-U-C-I-F-E-R.
* * * * *
Without wasting another second Jordan hurried to the dark cliff a short
distance away. He found a narrow defile that led up into the rock;
followed it, and reached a little cave. There, fumbling, he at last
found the electro-pistol he had hidden beneath a pile of rocks. He
hurried back to the spacer and pondered what to do; he had planned no
further than this. Obviously, the only thing to do was await the return
of the owner: the Martian, Tarnuff, he sincerely hoped. Ron settled
down comfortably beneath the rear lateral fin to wait.
It must have been hours later. Ron was aware he had dozed several
times. But now he heard footsteps approaching, and he jerked himself
alert. Silently he crept beneath the under curve of the hull toward the
main side portal. There he stood very still in the deeper darkness and
watched a lone figure approaching. It was a Martian all right, he could
tell that by the huge, vague bulk of him. Ron waited until he came
within a few yards--then he stepped out and said:
"Hello, Tarnuff."
The Martian stopped suddenly; then leaned forward, peering through the
dark.
"An Earthman," he rasped. "What are you doing around my ship? Clear out
of here!" He started to stride forward again, purposefully.
"Don't come any closer!" Jordan snapped. "I've got a pistol trained
right on you."
The Martian looked down and saw it. He said tersely:
"How do you know my name? What do you want?"
Jordan didn't answer the first question, but smiled at the
confirmation. "I want three things, Tarnuff. First I want you to toss
your pistol over here on the ground. Next I want you to enter this ship
ahead of me. Finally I want you to sign a paper. After which I may or
may not let you go, depending on how you comply."
Tarnuff didn't move. He stood there staring.
"Quick--your pistol!" Jordan snapped. "Or you get a taste of mine!"
"Oh, no." Tarnuff was looking above Jordan's head. He went on quickly:
"All right, Oruk, grab him!"