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.

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: