_Martians were weak, sensitive, a dying race,
frail and impotent before the superiority of master
Earthmen. Only in the sly and mentally skillful
game of Duchal might sons of the red planet
emerge gloriously from their shells._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Chester Farrell emerged from the narrow alley and paused before the
barbed wire fence.
Behind him, the Martian city was a maze of strange sounds, angular
buildings, acrid odors and dark shadows.
Before him, beyond the fence, three spaceships pointed their bows
toward a star-studded sky. The slender ships gleamed dully in the
starlight as they rested on the red desert.
He touched the money in his pocket to reassure himself that at last, he
had the fare for the trip to Earth.
His eyes scanned the heavens, searched for the bright light that was
Earth.
Earth! In itself, the planet meant little to him. The seas, mountains,
valleys and forests did not cause the burning desire inside him.
He closed his eyes and remembered a brick house in Cleveland and the
brown-haired woman and chubby boy who lived there. He recalled slender,
soft fingers that touched him gently and a small form that waddled
uncertainly across their living room floor.
Three years ago, he had left Louise and Sammy on Earth. He had come to
Mars to make a small fortune.
The dream had not materialized: the Mars Mining Corporation didn't want
to pay their employees good salaries although the ores transported to
Earth sold for tremendous profits. They paid their employees as little
as possible.
It was simple: Governments wanted colonists on Mars to exploit the
planet. Mars Mining wanted colonists to remain and operate their mines.
The two groups, political and business, collaborated and ... while the
trip to Mars cost only a hundred dollars, the return trip to Earth cost
one thousand dollars.
Because of the high price of living on Mars and the low salaries, the
fee was an encouragement to remain on the planet.
It had taken him three years to save enough money to rejoin his family.
Bitterness filled him as he studied the motionless ships. Convertible
spaceships. The bulkheads inside the hull were collapsible and the
space in a ship was constantly adjusted into different size storage
holds and passenger compartments.
During the voyage to Earth, he would be the only passenger and would
occupy a coffin-like compartment. Every other available foot of space
would be filled with valuable ores.
When the ship returned to Mars, the passenger compartments would be
spacious, luxurious and comfortable. They would be filled with hundreds
of propaganda-fed, eager colonists who were unaware of the economic
trap before them.
As he turned and followed the fence toward the spaceport's office
buildings he heard the faint sounds behind him.
A whisper of movement across the red sand.
An animal?
He glanced uneasily at the tiny lights from the office buildings. In
the thin atmosphere, light carried a long distance and was deceptive.
The lights seemed near but he knew he still had a fifteen minute walk
ahead of him.
Once more he heard the indefinable sound behind him.
His imagination?
A Martian?
An Earthman, a sound of harsh breathing informed him.
* * * * *
He leaped to one side as the sounds neared his back.
Too late. Something crashed into the side of his head and bright lights
danced gaily inside his skull.
He fell and rolled frantically across the soft sand.
As he scrambled to his feet he saw his attacker, a husky, powerfully
built man. A blackjack dangled loosely from a hand.
Before he could rise a knee struck him on the jaw. He sank to the
ground.
The man was on him, pinning him to the sand.
Farrell's nostrils were filled with the man's acrid body odor.
A knife glittered in the starlight as it was pressed gently against his
throat.
"Tell me where the money is," the man ordered. "It'll save time."
Too stunned to speak, Farrell nodded at his coat pocket.
The man removed the money and counted rapidly, somehow managing to keep
the knife in his hand while he flipped the bills.
Satisfied, he stuffed the bills in a pocket and raised the knife for a
fatal lunge.
His arms pinned at his sides by the man's knees, Farrell knew only one
thing could save him: WORDS.
"I can get you five times that much," he said quickly, the words
crowding each other in their haste.
It worked: the knife wavered, hesitated. If he had screamed, "Don't
kill me!" he would have been killed instantly but the simple statement
had aroused his assailant's curiosity.
"Five times that much?" the man repeated gruffly.
Phobos, the largest and closest of the two moons, moved visibly
across the dark sky. Suddenly, they were no longer in the shadow of
a building. Moonlight flowed across the man's face and for the first
time, he saw his features.
He looked up at a rough, almost brutal face with thick lips, fierce
eyes, blunt, broken nose and bushy eyebrows.
"Five thousand dollars," Farrell confirmed.
"Where?"
"Dankor city. You've heard of a Martian game called rhakal?"
He frowned. "Yeah, I heard of it. I also heard Earthmen don't win very
often."
"I won," Farrell told him. "Five thousand. I spent most of it but I
saved the thousand to go back to Earth. If you don't kill me, I'll win
five thousand for you."
His adversary grinned wryly and lowered the knife toward Farrell's
throat. "This sounds like a trick."
"Trick? How can I trick you? Dankor is off limits to Earthmen. You and
I will be the only--"
The man cocked his head and asked, "You have any Martian friends in
Dankor?"