Part 1

MIND STEALERS OF PLUTO

By JOSEPH FARRELL

Ron Barnard had stuck his nose into one news story too many. It had started with a lovely girl, a wily Chinese and a drug ring that circled the System. Now it was ending for him in a rogue spaceship--his epitaph a rocket's red stream across the starways.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Ron Barnard leaned unhappily on Quong Kee's bar and looked over the worst dive on Mars. This hell hole of Quong Kee's was no fit place even for a newspaperman looking for a story on the dope ring that was haunting the outer planets. The habitues were cut-throats, fugitives from Earth and the space police. To say nothing of the _neoin_ fiends.

The two unshaven men hunched at a corner table, for instance. He eyed them in contempt. They were far gone in their addiction to the drug, and he would put no crime past them. They probably would murder their grandmothers for a gram of _neoin_.

The two persons in question straightened as if a gun had been fired. They faced the bar, and their questing eyes found Barnard. One of them, teeth bared and hands bent into claws, started to move toward the reporter.

"What did you think?" the man demanded.

Barnard dropped a coin on the bar and tried to walk carelessly to the door. He wanted no fights with a _neoin_-filled madman. Silently he cursed himself for forgetting the extra sensory powers imparted by the drug. But the men had seemed too far gone to use their ESP.

The man charged across the room. Barnard saw that escape was out and resigned himself to a fight. He waited for the wild lunge, sidestepped and shot in a right that sent the addict reeling back. A few customers watched with mild interest. But this was routine at Quong Kee's--nobody would interfere.

Sullenly, the man glared at him, as if gathering courage for another charge. Barnard knew that actually the irresponsible creature was working himself up to a murderous pitch. Now he felt the waves of fury beating at his mind.

He waited, tense and ready. From the corner of his vision he saw the drapes that cut off the back room come apart, and a figure hurrying out. A slender figure in faded coveralls. Then he looked again.

It was a woman--a slender pale girl who clicked somehow in his memory. He had seen her around Kainor, this port city of Mars, several times in the past few days.

Watching her, he almost missed the onslaught of the _neoin_ fiend. The fury of the charge backed him to the wall and he lashed out desperately against the claws and knees of the man. His head jammed against the wall and crimson streaks exploded before him. He jabbed with aching arms, trying to push the madman off. Dimly, he saw the girl trying to whisper something in the fiend's ear.

The man broke off clawing suddenly, a look of surprise on his twisted face. Barnard watched weakly as he backed off a few steps to listen to what the girl was whispering. Then the man glared with sullen respect at Barnard for a few seconds and went back to his friend.

The girl turned swiftly and started back for the drapes. Barnard caught her arm.

"Miss--" He stared at her. It was his first good look, and he wondered where she had found the courage to interfere with a raging _neoin_ fiend. If that man had turned on her--!

She wasn't beautiful--she looked as if she hadn't slept much lately. If somebody could put a few pounds on her in the right places--and a smile on her face--

"Thanks," he said, puffing. "I was in a spot--you can't hurt those lads when they're hopped. What did you tell him, anyway?"

She shrank back a little. Strangely, he felt that the fear in her eyes was more of him than of the cut-throats in Quong Kee's. Her face acquired a faint touch of color.

"I told him," she said, "that I'd take away his _neoin_ ration card."

She pulled loose and disappeared into the other room.

* * * * *

Barnard stared at the drapes and grinned a little at the evasive answer. What had she told the fiend? If he knew, it might help him to get some news. And what was she doing here in this dive--he'd swear she wasn't the type!

He thought of the boss back on Earth thundering through the news room as Barnard's meager despatches dribbled through. But Hell! He'd done all any human could possibly do! He'd spoken with officials and spacemen and scientists, poked his skinny nose into dens like this where a man risked his life if he so much as _thought_ out of line. He'd even bought some of the drug from the peddlers who operated almost openly, and he'd cultivated them, but they were only tools.

The higher-ups might have been invisible for all anybody knew about them. Nobody even knew where the drug came from. But wherever it originated, it was swiftly corrupting Mars and Venus, as well as the Jovian system and the asteroid belt.

When small quantities appeared on Earth, the powers-that-be of the System News Service smelled news. Ron Barnard, star reporter who had unveiled many a scandal in gay twenty-third century New York, was sent to investigate. And Ron Barnard stood in Mars' wildest dive, scratching his head and staring after a frightened, pretty girl.

"That's my sister," said a childish voice beside him.

Barnard stared at the big man beside him. The man was a splendid physical specimen, but his face--

It was the face of a mindless idiot.

Barnard felt repelled. The man's features were not idiotic; they should have been those of an intelligent person. But the eyes changed everything. They were blank and somehow--soulless. Barnard shrank automatically away from the apelike creature.

Then he understood what the idiot had said.

"Your sister!" He stared unbelievingly.

The gray haired shambling being gurgled, childlike. "My sister--Gail."

Barnard felt a curious shame in finding a human being in such a state, talking like a baby. But maybe he could learn something. He dug into his pocket, thrust a coin into the idiot's palm.

"What does your sister do? Does she maybe sell little packages of gray powder to people?"

The creature looked naively at him. "Gail don't like the gray powder. She says I must never eat the gray powder. Do you want some? Lots of mans here sells some."

Barnard thought. He had seen that girl before. A hunch began to grow in him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"George Melvin," the idiot said.

"George!"

It was Gail Melvin's voice. Barnard saw her in the doorway of Quong Kee's back room. George went dutifully to her, clutching the coin Barnard had handed him. The girl took his hand and pulled him inside.

Barnard regarded the doorway sourly. He looked around Quong Kee's, caught the glance of the maniac who had attacked him. He took his coat and airpac and left hastily.

* * * * *

At the communications center he sent another despatch. Nothing much to report, and he knew the boss wouldn't like it. The System News Service firmly believed that scoops grew on Martian trees and Ron Barnard was expected to pick out a nice one to feed the hungry public.

Jingling the change in his pocket, he sensed something wrong, and pulled out the coins for a look. His lucky coin was missing--a rare twentieth century Buffalo nickel. He had given it to the half wit.

He fingered the bruises the _neoin_ fiend had made on his face and grinned humorlessly. The coin hadn't brought him much luck.

He was going into his hotel when he sighted George Melvin shambling down the street. He paused, waiting for the half-wit to reach him. It was cold, and he wanted to get inside, but leads were scarce. He fell into step beside George.

"Hello, George," he said. "Where do you and Gail live?"

The half wit looked innocently at him. His airpac was strapped around the collar of his coat. Evidently Gail did not consider him intelligent enough even to breathe properly on Mars! Barnard squeezed his own airpac in an automatic motion. Oxygen on Mars was just short of enough for humans. A man would sooner be minus his pants than his airpac, though Martian-born humans needed them only at time of exertion.

"We live in Chicago."

"Yes--that's on Earth. But where do you stay on Mars?"

"In Chicago on Mars, too."

Barnard looked suspiciously at him. But the vacuous expression certainly was not feigned; George Melvin's eyes were less intelligent than a fish's.

"Do you stay at Quong Kee's?" the reporter tried.

"Sometimes. At night we go back to Chicago. Where do you stay?"

"In the fog, most of the time." Barnard tried another line. "Where's Gail now?"

"In jail." George Melvin said it without changing his tone or his expression.

Barnard seized his coat front and stared into the dull eyes. "In jail? George, what happened? Who arrested her? Why?"

"A man came. A man with a star on his hat--"

"The Space Police!"

Barnard released the half-wit. He stared happily toward the gray building of the Space Police. This was something--he felt the hunch too strongly to have any doubt. The story was going to break!

The Space Police were relatively new, and it behooved them to be good to the press, for there was still much opposition to their existence. He hesitated a moment, thinking of the lack of enthusiasm with which Commander John Lansfer had received him. But Lansfer would let him in on the story, or there'd be some hot articles in the newspapers of the System News Service.

He pushed another coin into George Melvin's paw. "George, go back to Quong Kee's and wait until I come. Do you understand? I'm going to find out about Gail."

Watching the half-wit disappear, he felt a pang where his conscience should have been. Somehow he didn't like the idea of Gail Melvin as a part of this _neoin_ ring.

"Hell," he growled to himself. "I can't afford to be human. I have a job to do--and the System News Service comes first."

He pushed into a thin cold Martian wind and hurried toward the warmth of the police building.

II

Barnard looked through narrowed eyes at Commander Lansfer of the Space Police, and he knew the man was lying. All his newsman's instinct told him that the dark-haired, sharp-featured police officer knew more than he was telling. He leaned across the desk.

"Commander, I came all the way from Earth to get the inside on this dope ring. Who's behind it? Where does it come from?"

Lansfer shrugged slightly. His face was expressionless, as always. "We are working on the problem," he said.

Barnard made a disgusted gesture. "We know that the outer planets are being flooded with _neoin_. Mars is full of human wrecks, and half the asterites are using the stuff. If it ever gets loose on Earth, the human race will have a worse enemy than the black plague."

"We will cooperate with the press," said Lansfer, "as far as it's practical to do so. In the meantime, you may be sure we're not sleeping."

"I hope not." Barnard glared at the policeman and made a mental note to pan the Space Police in his next despatch. "And how does Gail Melvin fit in?"

"Gail Melvin is a minor peddler. We've nothing on her--just took her in for questioning, to be sure she knew nothing important." A trace of annoyance shaded his eyes for a moment. "But we took her in quietly. How did you find out about it?"

"From my special secret service," said Barnard dryly.

"Then," said Lansfer, "your secret service can tell you the rest of the story. If you're quite through--"

They stood and for a second faced each other across the desk. Lansfer, six hard feet of spaceman, hard jawed and poker faced. Barnard, six lean flexible feet of newsman, crowding his thermostats. Then Barnard whirled and went out.

Standing before the building, he reflected. No news meant the boss would be sending more spacegrams threatening to fire him--and meaning it. His hunch was still solid on Lansfer's knowing something. There was something behind the secrecy with which the space police worked, but--

There was more than one way to find out. If Lansfer wouldn't talk, other policemen might. He looked around, found the nearest saloon. Some of the space police had just finished their day's work. Thoughtfully jingling the platinum coins in his pocket, he went into the saloon.

Alone at one end of the bar was a patrolman. Barnard took a place beside him and ordered a drink.

"H'lo, Remish," he said. "What's the news on Gail Melvin?"

Remish grinned and shook his head. Barnard felt a slight distaste for what he was about to do. It didn't seem right.

He took a balled fist from his pocket and opened it slowly, holding it between himself and the patrolman so that it was not visible to anybody else in the room. He opened it just enough for Remish to see the five Martian platins.

Remish turned and faced the row of bottles behind the bar. His face was blank. For a long minute he said nothing. Then:

"I don't like that, Barnard. I could use that as well as anybody. But there's something I like better."

Barnard hadn't liked it either. But hell--after some of the police he'd met on the outer planets, he couldn't help but be cynical. He raised his glass and threw down the drink.

"It's everyday stuff, of course," Remish conceded. "But I'm going to be one cop who's different. There's talk enough now about the Space Patrol--that we're fronting for pirates and transporting _neoin_. And some funny things have been going on."

He fingered his glass thoughtfully. "Nothing I can put a definite finger on," he mused. "But maybe you're the man who can do it. With the System News Service behind you--

"I don't know much," he went on. "But I'll play along with you--and I hope I'm doing the right thing. Gail Melvin--the chief had her under a Sokolsky lie detector. Greatest thing in lie detectors yet. She was clear--has no connection with the dope ring."

Barnard caught his breath. Gail Melvin had no connection with the _neoin_ gang? But Lansfer had said she was a minor peddler?

The patrolman stared into his glass of _boorsha_ for a moment, hesitating. He turned again to Barnard. "Another thing. That George Melvin is faking. He's no more of a half-wit than I am--I hope. When I last saw him, he was on Venus running the swankiest gin mill in Lidice. He and his partner--Quong Kee!"

Barnard stared incredulously at the patrolman. "George Melvin faking! Not a chance--he's just what he seems to be, and I wouldn't bet any more on a royal flush!"

"I know," Remish shrugged. "And do you want to know something else? I haven't been able to find a person who's seen Quong Kee since he came to Mars!"

Barnard slowly put down his drink and left the saloon.

* * * * *

He sailed into Quong Kee's, paused cautiously to see that the fiend who had attacked him was sleeping with his head on the table, and plunged through the drapes into the back room. There was an answer to this and he was bound he'd find it.

A gray, tired Chinese looked up from behind a desk. His right hand had darted to the edge of the desk when Barnard entered. Thoughtfully, he studied the reporter and folded his hands.

Barnard faced him. "Quong Kee. You and George Melvin were partners at one time."

Quong Kee gazed back coolly, and Barnard saw that he'd learn only what the man decided he should know. After a while Quong Kee nodded.

"Yes--Mr. Barnard. George Melvin was--and is--my partner."

"How did you know me?" Barnard demanded. "You never leave this room."

A tired smile flickered over the thin lips. "Earlier this evening I watched Miss Melvin extricate you from a difficult position. Until she informed me that you were seeking news, I never realized that journalism involved such jeopardy."

Barnard grinned involuntarily. He was beginning to like this Oriental who spoke in cultured tones. Since he realized that threats or bribes would do no good, he gave in to the impulsive liking.

"Mind telling me something about Gail Melvin?" he asked. "And about things in general?"

Quong Kee peered narrowly at Barnard through half-closed eyes. The reporter wondered uncomfortably if the man used _neoin_ and was studying him with extra sensory faculties, but he swiftly rejected the thought. There was no trace of the drug in Quong Kee's appearance. Maybe it was natural ESP--or just an old-fashioned sizing-up.

"You are very anxious to secure this--scoop, aren't you, Mr. Barnard?"

Barnard thrust his face closer. "Quong Kee," he said slowly, "I would give my right arm to break this story. I would cut every throat on Mars if it would help me to find out where _neoin_ comes from."

He meant it--almost, anyway. Somehow the thought of cutting Gail Melvin's throat persisted. He forced the thought back. No price was too high!

"I, too, would give much to destroy the drug traffic," Quong Kee said softly. "George Melvin and I operated an establishment in Lidice, Venus--until _neoin_ appeared. We were doing excellently. But then George became involved in a crusade against the drug peddlers. He found out some things--I do not know exactly what.

"But he disappeared. And things began to happen to our establishment. Things like bombs, bullets, poison in the food--I was forced to close and barely escaped with my life."

He picked up the mounted photograph that Barnard had vaguely noticed on the desk and turned it for the reporter to see. Barnard recognized Quong Kee and--George Melvin! But a George Melvin whose eyes were young and intelligent and flashing with the joy of living!

"Gail located him," said Quong Kee, "through the Missing Persons Division. He was here in Kainor, in the condition in which you saw him tonight. Gail and I packed what we could into George's space ship, the _Chicago_, and we came here, where I opened this--ah--place of refreshment."

"_Chicago_," Barnard mused. "I should have guessed that."

"Gail recognized you standing out there this evening," said Quong Kee. Again the haunted smile crept over his lips. "I can't understand her motivation for intervening in your quarrel. She told me you were a great reporter who might expose the criminals and she had to save you."

"Isn't that reason enough?" Barnard demanded suspiciously. "What did she say to him?"

"She told him you were a higher-up in the _neoin_ organization and would see that his supply was stopped if he harmed you. A clever girl--but foolish."

Barnard didn't ask why. "Where is George Melvin now?" he demanded.

Before Quong Kee could answer, the pound of heavy feet sounded in the doorway. Barnard whirled and watched the three local policemen march in.

"Where's the body?" asked the leader.

Quong Kee's eyes flickered briefly toward Barnard, and he gestured toward something the newsman hadn't noticed. In a corner of the room was a bed. With something on it. The policeman yanked a sheet off the something. Barnard felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to rise.

He stared at the body of George Melvin.

* * * * *

"I had my men detain everybody," Quong Kee told the police. "But the body was discovered close to the door, indicating that the murderer escaped. Several fights were in progress at the time, and it is possible that he was struck by a stray knife, but I doubt it."

"No," the policeman grunted. "The knife struck upwards and his pockets have been searched."

"Evidently he was enticed into the hallway for that purpose," said Quong Kee.

Barnard frowned, watching the police examine the knife that protruded from George Melvin's chest. Then the dope ring, fearing that he would divulge something, had finished him off.

But that didn't make sense. They had seemed pleased to let him run loose before, probably as an example--why the sudden fear of his talking? He thought suddenly of the new lie detector mentioned by Remish, and wondered if that instrument could reach even into the mind that George Melvin did not have.

He stayed close to the police as they made a brief examination, asking a few questions and then closing up their notebooks and leaving. It was clear that they didn't expect to solve the murder. To them it was routine--another derelict knifed by a _neoin_ fiend.

The whole thing made Barnard a little sick. He gazed uncomfortably at the corpse. The man had hardly known that he lived, yet--

His lucky nickel hadn't brought much luck lately. It seemed to have turned into a Jonah.

He said nothing until the police had departed and the body had been removed. When he and Quong Kee were alone, he asked:

"Does Gail know this yet?"

"No."

"She's the only lead now." A thought made him uncomfortable. "Quong Kee--do you think she's in danger?"

The Chinese shrugged. He looked suddenly ancient, tired. His weary eyes met Barnard's.

"Since I've been on Mars, I've never left this room. Call it cowardice or intelligence, but I dare not expose myself. They haven't molested me here--my current clientele wouldn't be disturbed by a few bombs, anyway. And here I am protected--you narrowly escaped death when you entered this room."

He ran his hand along the side of his desk. "I could fill this room with the deadliest rays known to military science. I mention this by way of reminding you that you are not in a friendly game. You stand an excellent chance of being killed, or of losing your mind."

That shocked Barnard for about one second. But he had no time to be bothered with danger. And the System News Service was all-important.

"I'll take the chance," he said grimly. "Where's Gail?"

Quong Kee's haunted eyes closed momentarily. "She is on the _Chicago_. She needs somebody now, Ron Barnard. Go to her. I can't help; I'm an old man and afraid for my life. You are young and strong. There is danger, but go to her. Even if only for your scoop."

Something in the old man's voice was hypnotic. Barnard stared at him. "Where is this _Chicago_?" he asked.

"It's at Main Spaceport, in the public field. If she is not there, use this key and wait for her."

Barnard rose slowly. He tried to shake a lump out of his throat, cursing himself for going soft. Sitting here listening to an old man mouth sentiment--he shook his head angrily and glared at Quong Kee.

"I'll go," he said. "But _only_ for the scoop."

III

Quong Kee's faintly cynical smile didn't make him feel any better. Leaving the place, he glared belligerently at the maniac he had fought with. Marching to the spaceport, his feelings intensified so that he forgot to walk slowly, the first rule on Mars, and had to hold his airpac to his nostrils all the way. By the time he found the _Chicago_, his fingers were stiff from holding the instrument.

"Damn that living relic of a Quong Kee," he muttered, changing hands. "Damn everything!"

So the girl needed him. He growled at the idea of the Chinese putting the girl ahead of the System News Service.

His sense of humor came through then, and he laughed at himself. Ron Barnard, the hardest hearted reporter in the Solar System, was developing a crush on a girl he hardly knew! He chuckled at his emotions as if they were somebody else's.

"If the boys in the city room ever hear of this," he thought, "they'll laugh me right off Earth. I'll have to become a space-beacon keeper."

He stood for a minute sizing up the _Chicago_. Odd, he reflected, how the human mind before space travel had pictured space craft as wingless and cigar shaped. This rugged model, of an almost forgotten vintage, was short and stubby and wide winged. It scarcely looked spaceworthy, but the skies were filled with old craft like this one.