The end of the trail ... he knew it, she knew
it, old Hanu knew it and so Jeff Thorne
stumbled off into the Martian desert--to die.
But death takes strange forms out there....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Geoffrey Thorne was "on the beach." Face down on it, in fact, head and
shoulders deep in the brackish eddies of the slowly rising tide, the
sluggish waters of the North Nergal Polar cap. And it was odds he would
die there miserably in his drunken stupor, had not there come a sudden
interruption of the t'ang-ridden miasm in which he lay.
A sibilant rush of feet dashed across the worn Martian sand, splashed
into the shallows, and Thorne felt quick, vital hands snatch and roll
him face up, slapping a dull sensitivity into his addled wits. He shook
his head dazedly, realized his predicament, and feebly struggled to
rise. It was beyond his power.
With a snort of disgust, his rescuers caught him under the arms and
dragged him unceremoniously backward. Once clear enough of the dull
waters rolling languidly upon the low, hot beach, he let go and Thorne
sat down heavily in the sand.
"I'd call that a waste of effort," a well-fed voice coldly observed.
"Paul, please!" replied a woman's softer voice. Thorne shook his head
viciously, raised himself on one arm, and sought to focus his blurred
vision on the group facing him.
There were a dozen or so, well-dressed, well-fed, bright with color
and metal in the sunshine. Tourists. He looked up at the young petty
officer of International who had dragged him from the water. There was
a pained look of weary resignation on the clean-cut young face as he
turned to his temporary charges.
"I must apologize, ladies and gentlemen. This bit of local color was
unscheduled. It happens occasionally on the inner planets. Conditions
grow too rigorous and a man--uh--goes down."
Thorne laughed, a dreadful, choked hacking that set the fluttering
tourists back a step or two in sheer fright.
"A man goes down, kid." He rubbed his eyes and leered at them. "Damned
far down that you show him off like a Martian."
The officer of International Airways, Inc., winced and then added, to
his group, "He's right, you know. Privacy's about all that's left up
here on this station. Shall we go on? There are the caves I promised to
show you, farther along."
He moved up the beach, the tourists straggling after him, still
looking back at the dejected figure of Thorne half-lying, half-sitting
in the hot sand. Their voices came drifting back upon his throbbing
consciousness.
"But, Mr. Atlee," a woman's voice urged, "we can't just leave him there
like that. Mightn't he drown?"
"The tide doesn't come much higher, Miss Thurland. He'll be all right.
Once out of that coma, he won't drop into it again for a day or two,
unless he gets more t'ang."
"What is this t'ang, Mr. Atlee?" another woman asked. "A Martian drink?"
"Yes, it is. High explosive ... and one drink wrecks a man for life.
They never get it out of their systems, and they don't much care.
It's like the opium off Jupiter, only worse. They'd kill for it.
Fortunately, they can't get it any too easily--but it's not fortunate
for poor devils like Thorne."
They were gone, then. The last had vanished in the misty haze spun by
the blazing sunshine on the northern rocks. Heading for the Vulhan
caves farther along no doubt. Rock crystals and ancient weapons
from some forgotten battle there for the picking up, glittering
gew-gaws to pleasure lazy, personally-conducted school-teachers and
insurance-brokers on holiday. A crooked grin twisted Thorne's lips. It
hadn't been so easy a few years ago.
It had been hard. Too hard for Jeff Thorne.
Well, there was always t'ang.
* * * * *
He heaved himself up, shook the sand from his ragged clothes, and
lurched unsteadily to the water's edge. Kneeling, he splashed the cool,
brackish stuff on his muddy face, his swollen hands. He was running
them listlessly through his dark hair, trying to conquer its wild
disorder, when a sound behind him brought him about with an oath. His
brows darkened.
"You're missing the show at the Caves," he pointed out, a sneer in his
rasping voice. "Or do you prefer this?" He waved rudely at the hot
sand, the dulling ripples, the low, pulpy vegetation crowning the long
slope up the beach.
The girl watched him steadily, her hands tight upon a small red and
white bag, and under her grave, slow regard a dull flush crept along
his cheek-bones to lose itself in the stubby tangle of beard. The dark
blue eyes were soft and thoughtful and more than a little sad. Mirrored
in them, for the first time in many months, Thorne saw for a moment
what he had become and the flush died away in a gray-white pallor. It
was not pleasant.
"You--are Mr. Geoffrey Thorne?" she asked. The rich tones of her voice
sent a tingle through the hapless derelict of the void. How long since
he had heard a woman say "Mister Thorne"? How long since he had heard
a woman so much as address him? His crooked grin returned. "My name
is ... Jeff Thorne, Miss," he replied.
She smiled in answer, a smile only slightly less awry. "You don't know
me, Mr. Thorne. I'm Helen Thurland. A friend of mine, Nancy Bertrand,
was once stewardess on your Venus-Titan run. She thought the world of
you."
"Then I'm glad she didn't accompany you," Thorne rasped. He plunged
raggedly up the slope toward the inviting shade of the floppy vegetable
trees cresting the rise. "Get out of that sun, girl. It's hotter than
you think."
In silent obedience she followed, but he turned at the top to lower at
her. "Is Miss Bertrand at Vulhan City?" he demanded. "If she is, and
you bring her here to look at ... at me...."
The girl looked down at the glittering sunlight on the sea. "Nancy
isn't at the City."
He sighed gustily with relief. "I thought plenty of her myself," he
admitted, slumping down against a thick tree-trunk. "The best I...." He
paused; then looked out to sea himself, fingering his whiskers.
"The best stewardess you ever had," she completed. Taking off the huge,
floppy hat affected by tourists in the Martian heat, she looked down
thoughtfully at him.
"She's dead, you know."