Part 1

THIEF OF MARS

By HENRY HASSE

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!"

Jordan laughed aloud. "That old trick! I don't fall--"

His voice was cut off as two huge hands reached down and closed around his throat. At the same instant Tarnuff leaped forward and knocked the pistol from his hand.

"That old trick, eh? But sometimes it works. Nice going, Oruk."

"Heard voices--came to see," a gruff voice said.

Jordan was dangling, his toes barely touching the ground. He couldn't breathe. The hands tightened still more, as very powerful arms hauled him up into the airlock. There the hands loosened, and Jordan crumpled to the floor, half conscious. He was barely aware of Tarnuff climbing in, and his voice saying:

"Throw him in one of the empty cabins, Oruk, then stand by in the rocket room. We're taking off. I'll attend to the brave Earthman later."

* * * * *

Ron came back to full consciousness, his head spinning dizzily as the blood rushed back. He was lying on the floor of a bare metal room. The door was locked, as expected. Were they in space already? He hadn't heard the throb of the rockets. He rushed to the port and looked out. No, they were still resting in the dark hollow of Ceres. He tried the port, and to his surprise it swung open. That meant they'd be rising very soon, else Oruk wouldn't have been so careless.

Ron estimated his chances, and made up his mind quickly. He'd have to get out of here while he could, then find another entrance whereby he could gain the control room where Tarnuff was. At least the element of surprise would be in his favor. He clambered through the port and slid down the smooth curve of the ship, finally dropping to the ground ten feet below.

There were four airlocks, one pair amidships and the other pair near the prow. He tried them all. All were tightly sealed. He ran back toward the stern, looking up at the row of ports. But there were no handholds for him there, even if he could have leaped up and reached them. He stopped suddenly at the huge, rectangular under-hull repulsion plates. No, there was no entrance that way. Even as he looked at them, he heard their low steady hum begin; the entire hull began quivering. He ran on, and reached the rear fin just as the ship began to lift. With a little prayer he leaped and pulled himself up.

It was a foolhardy thing to do, Ron knew that, even as he was climbing atop a six-foot tube by using the smaller tubes as a ladder. He knew the atmosphere ended about a half-mile up; he also knew that if those tubes started blasting suddenly he'd be a cinder in no time at all.

He gained his precarious perch, and moved along toward the rocket-room port a dozen feet ahead of him. Luckily the spacer was lifting slowly. He reached the port and peered in. Oruk, a huge Jovian brute, was facing half away from Ron; his hands were on the fuel levers as though awaiting orders from Tarnuff.

The spacer stopped rising, just clear of the cliffs. The air was tenuous, barely breathable now. With frantic fingers Ron tugged at the rim around the heavy glass port. It was useless. At the same instant he saw Oruk throw several levers. The small tubes on which Ron was standing began to vibrate, and he could feel increasing heat through his heavy shoes.

Desperately he raised one foot and crashed his heel against the glass. It rang hollowly, but didn't break. Oruk turned at the sound, a startled look on his huge stupid face. Again Ron lashed out, and a third time. The glass crashed inward just as Oruk advanced toward him with powerful long arms reaching out.

The heat under Ron's feet was unbearable now. Heedless of the ragged glass, he grabbed the upper edge of the port and launched his entire body through, feet first. His feet caught the advancing Oruk squarely in the chest and sent him staggering back. Ron himself crashed to the floor.

He arose just as Oruk came at him again with slow deliberateness. Ron glanced hurriedly around for a weapon, but there was nothing. He ducked under the reaching arms, crashed a blow to the Jovian's body and another to his face. He saw Oruk grin. He tried to escape the arms, but they found him and closed around him crushingly. Ron struggled, but his own arms were pressed tight in that relentless grip. He could only stare up into the grayish face that was still grinning. The breath was slowly leaving him, the pressure on his lungs agonizing. He brought his knee up sharply into Oruk's side, but couldn't reach it. Suddenly Tarnuff's voice came through the communicating tube:

"All right, Oruk, full power now. All tubes!"

The pressure of Oruk's arms loosened for a moment as he stared around. At the same time Ron feigned unconsciousness. His head dropped forward, and he allowed his whole body to go limp. Oruk dropped him to the floor and turned to the tube.

Instantly Ron was on his feet, but silently. One leap brought him to Oruk's side, and he snatched out the pistol. Even as the Jovian was turning, Ron pressed it hard against his side and released the trigger.

It wasn't an electro-gun, it was one of the Martian-style pistols that fired tiny atomic bullets. The bullet entered Oruk's side and exploded at once, tearing a gaping hole through him. He staggered forward, his mouth open ludicrously as though he would speak; only a gurgling sound emerged, then he crashed to the floor.

* * * * *

Ron wasted a moment to lean weakly against the wall. Suddenly he saw that the ship was rising again, the air of this room swiftly escaping through the shattered port. Tarnuff was calling:

"Oruk! I said full power!"

Ron leaped to an iron locker, wrenched it open and saw a pair of space-suits. Quickly he donned one, and clamped the helmet down just as the utter cold of space swept into the room. He pressed the oxygen-tank release and breathed gratefully as air came flowing into the helmet. Then he stepped to the bank of fuel levers and pulled them all down. The spacer leaped forward, leaving Ceres far behind as triple blasts of fire streamed from the huge tubes.

Pulling Oruk's huge body after him, Ron stepped quickly into the interior of the ship and stood a moment, listening. Not a sound came from Tarnuff, far forward in the control room. Ron dragged Oruk's body to the central airlock, and gave it a decent burial in space. Not until then did he divest himself of the cumbersome space-suit. He examined the atom pistol and saw there were still five or six charges in the firing chamber. Then he moved forward, opened the control room door silently and stood just within the threshold.

Tarnuff was hunched over the calculation table, his back to the door. Once or twice he reached out and moved a directional-finder infinitesimally to agree with the chart. Ron watched silently, a grim smile on his lips. Not until Tarnuff straightened up from his task did Ron speak:

"For the second time, Tarnuff--hello."

The Martian whirled around in the seat, saw Ron with the pistol levelled.

"You!" he exclaimed, starting to spring up but sinking down again. "So--you broke out, eh? That clumsy fool, Oruk, wait'll I get my hands on him." His face darkened.

Ron laughed aloud. "You'll have a hard time doing that. Your strong-arm pal is a thousand miles behind us in space by this time. Yes," he answered the other's questioning eyes, "I blasted a hole through him." He gestured to the Martian's belt. "I'll take that pistol now; I asked for it a little while ago, you remember. First stand up, then toss it to me--careful!"

Tarnuff obeyed, sullenly. Ron caught the pistol and jammed it in his belt.

"And now my electro-gun, please. That's right. Thanks. You've got your course charted?"

"Yes."

"For where?"

"Callisto."

"Good enough for the time being. Now lock those controls and sit down at the table again. We'll get down to business."

"I haven't any business with you, Earthman."

"Oh, yes you have, but you don't know it yet. Sit down!" Ron shoved the pistol at him meaningly.

Tarnuff complied, appearing more puzzled than he was sullen. But he did not remain puzzled long, as Ron drew out a folded paper and handed it to him.

"I'm Ron Jordan. The name may mean something to you when you've read that. You will then sign it, if you wish to ever leave this ship alive."

Ron watched him closely as he read, and he saw comprehension slowly dawn in the Martian's eyes. Tarnuff finished the brief, but concise story of the asteroid incident as related by Carl Jordan. Then he looked up with an almost contemptuous smile on his lips.

"Ah, yes, I remember now. Your brother, I presume. I had heard on the telecast that he was sentenced for smuggling Silicytes. Most unfortunate."

"Unfortunate for you, right now. Sign!"

Tarnuff calmly ignored the menacing pistol and said:

"But this statement implicates me most seriously, Ron Jordan. I do not like that."

"Sign," Ron said through clenched teeth, "or I blast you here and now."

Tarnuff shook his head. "That's one thing I know you won't do. Not without my signature. You need it too badly."

"Do I? You forget one thing, Tarnuff. The Patrol's still looking for a ship named _Lucifer_ and your attempt to disguise it was pretty clumsy. I had intended to let you escape at your convenience, but now I'll just have to take you _and_ this ship back to Earth. That should be conclusive enough."

But Tarnuff was smiling blandly, leaning back in the chair. He was hugely amused at something, and Ron was vaguely worried without exactly knowing why.

"No, Ron Jordan," the Martian was saying. "I don't think you'll dare set this spacer on Earth or any other planet."

"Why not?"

"Because you know too well the penalty for Silicyte smuggling. Has it not occurred to you what my cargo is? I'm carrying a full load of Silicytes at this moment. As soon as you set down anywhere I'll swear to the authorities that you're my accomplice in this. They'll believe it, too, in view of what happened to your brother; they'll think slave trading runs in your family!" Tarnuff laughed harshly, looking up at Ron's suddenly perplexed face.

* * * * *

It was several seconds before Ron could realize the implication of the words. Then he said explosively:

"I don't believe you!"

"You don't believe I've got the Silicytes aboard? Come and see for yourself."

Ron knew by the man's cool insolence that he spoke the truth. But he followed Tarnuff back into the ship anyway, keeping him at pistol point. The Martian unlocked and threw back several doors ... and there were the Silicytes. Only twice in his life had Ron ever seen the queer creatures, and never at this close range.

They stood erect, and were roughly human in shape, but that's as far as the resemblance went. They were formed of thousands of faceted crystals which clung together with peculiar cohesion, flashing iridescently whenever they moved! Instead of arms, dozens of chain-like crystalline tentacles hung down from a position near the shoulders. The creatures appeared so brittle and fragile that it seemed they would fall apart at the slightest touch, but this was purely illusion. They possessed a dull sort of intelligence but obeyed instructions implicitly once they understood, and they'd work for tremendous lengths of time to earn the scraps of metal which they absorbed and relished. For this reason they brought fabulous prices on such outposts as Callisto, despite the fact that the owners had to work them discreetly, hiding them whenever inspectors came.

"You see, Jordan?" Tarnuff said, closing the doors. "And that's only part of 'em. I've got over a hundred aboard. You can put the pistol away now, you won't need it." He moved past Ron and back to the control room.

Ron followed him slowly, pondering the unexpected and hazardous situation he found himself in. Hazardous because the Patrol had a special contingent in the asteroid lanes in an effort to stop the Silicyte smuggling which had reached unprecedented heights in the past year. Tarnuff was right--he dared not take this ship back to Earth now; and if a Patrol ship intercepted them in space, he'd soon be keeping Carl company in the Venus prison-swamp.

No he wouldn't, either! Worse than that. Caught red-handed with Silicytes in transit would mean the death penalty.

"Well, it's your move, Jordan." The Martian's voice, his entire mien, was one of amused complacency. He stepped to the controls. "Shall I re-chart for Earth?"

"No!" The word came explosively, and Ron was immediately sorry.

Tarnuff chuckled. "I thought not. Well?"

"We keep on for Callisto," Ron said with a finality he didn't feel. "It's nearer."

Tarnuff was still unperturbed. "Oh, I see. And there you turn me over to the authorities, eh? Well, Jordan, that means you cut your own throat; I meant it what I said; you're in this with me now."

Ron stood motionless, frowning and indecisive.

Tarnuff's voice was suddenly serious. "Come, Jordan, you're in a spot and you know it. So am I--I want to get these Silicytes through safely. So I'll make you a proposition. Come in this with me! I know how to land these things on Callisto and how to get rid of 'em. We'll have the cash an hour after we land there. This _was_ to be my last load--it's getting risky--but I know where I can get a hundred more, and with your help we can get them through too. We'll split fifty-fifty."

Ron smiled thinly, indicating the pistols in his belt. "You're in a hell of a position to be talking like that, Tarnuff. If I wanted the Silicytes I'd take 'em all. But I don't want any part of your filthy business!"