<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class="poem"><p>
<i>To escape from Mars, all Clayton had to do was the impossible. Break out of
a crack-proof exile camp—get onto a ship that couldn’t be
boarded—smash through an impenetrable wall of steel. Perhaps he could do
all these things, but he discovered that Mars did evil things to men; that he
wasn’t even Clayton any more. He was only—</i></p>
</div>
<h1>The Man Who Hated Mars</h1>
<h2>By RANDALL GARRETT</h2>
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">
“I want</span> you to put me in prison!” the big, hairy man said in
a trembling voice.</p>
<p>He was addressing his request
to a thin woman sitting
behind a desk that seemed
much too big for her. The
plaque on the desk said:</p>
<p class="center">LT. PHOEBE HARRIS<br/>
TERRAN REHABILITATION SERVICE</p>
<p>Lieutenant Harris glanced
at the man before her for only
a moment before she returned
her eyes to the dossier on the
desk; but long enough to verify
the impression his voice
had given. Ron Clayton was a
big, ugly, cowardly, dangerous
man.</p>
<p>He said: “Well? Dammit,
say something!”</p>
<p>The lieutenant raised her
eyes again. “Just be patient
until I’ve read this.” Her voice
and eyes were expressionless,
but her hand moved beneath
the desk.</p>
<div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/01.jpg" width-obs="700" height-obs="446" alt="[Illustration]" /> <p class="caption">The frightful carnage would go down in the bloody history of space.</p> </div>
<p>Clayton froze. <i>She’s yellow!</i>
he thought. She’s turned on
the trackers! He could see the
pale greenish glow of their
little eyes watching him all
around the room. If he made
any fast move, they would cut
him down with a stun beam
before he could get two feet.</p>
<p>She had thought he was
going to jump her. <i>Little rat!</i>
he thought, <i>somebody ought
to slap her down!</i></p>
<p>He watched her check
through the heavy dossier in
front of her. Finally, she looked
up at him again.</p>
<p>“Clayton, your last conviction
was for strong-arm robbery.
You were given a choice
between prison on Earth and
freedom here on Mars. You
picked Mars.”</p>
<p>He nodded slowly. He’d
been broke and hungry at the
time. A sneaky little rat
named Johnson had bilked
Clayton out of his fair share
of the Corey payroll job, and
Clayton had been forced to
get the money somehow. He
hadn’t mussed the guy up
much; besides, it was the
sucker’s own fault. If he hadn’t
tried to yell—</p>
<p>Lieutenant Harris went on:
“I’m afraid you can’t back
down now.”</p>
<p>“But it isn’t fair! The most
I’d have got on that frame-up
would’ve been ten years. I’ve
been here fifteen already!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Clayton. It can’t
be done. You’re here. Period.
Forget about trying to get
back. Earth doesn’t want
you.” Her voice sounded
choppy, as though she were
trying to keep it calm.</p>
<p>Clayton broke into a whining
rage. “You can’t do that!
It isn’t fair! I never did anything
to you! I’ll go talk to the
Governor! He’ll listen to reason!
You’ll see! I’ll—”</p>
<p>“<i>Shut up!</i>” the woman
snapped harshly. “I’m getting
sick of it! I personally think
you should have been locked
up—permanently. I think this
idea of forced colonization is
going to breed trouble for
Earth someday, but it is about
the only way you can get anybody
to colonize this frozen
hunk of mud.</p>
<p>“Just keep it in mind that
I don’t like it any better than
you do—<i>and I didn’t strong-arm
anybody to deserve the
assignment!</i> Now get out of
here!”</p>
<p>She moved a hand threateningly
toward the manual controls
of the stun beam.</p>
<p>Clayton retreated fast. The
trackers ignored anyone walking
away from the desk; they
were set only to spot threatening
movements toward it.</p>
<p>Outside the Rehabilitation
Service Building, Clayton
could feel the tears running
down the inside of his face
mask. He’d asked again and
again—God only knew how
many times—in the past fifteen
years. Always the same
answer. No.</p>
<p>When he’d heard that this
new administrator was a
woman, he’d hoped she might
be easier to convince. She
wasn’t. If anything, she was
harder than the others.</p>
<p>The heat-sucking frigidity
of the thin Martian air whispered
around him in a feeble
breeze. He shivered a little
and began walking toward the
recreation center.</p>
<p>There was a high, thin
piping in the sky above him
which quickly became a
scream in the thin air.</p>
<p>He turned for a moment to
watch the ship land, squinting
his eyes to see the number on
the hull.</p>
<p>Fifty-two. Space Transport
Ship Fifty-two.</p>
<p>Probably bringing another
load of poor suckers to freeze
to death on Mars.</p>
<p>That was the thing he hated
about Mars—the cold. The
everlasting damned cold! And
the oxidation pills; take one
every three hours or smother
in the poor, thin air.</p>
<p>The government could have
put up domes; it could have
put in building-to-building
tunnels, at least. It could have
done a hell of a lot of things
to make Mars a decent place
for human beings.</p>
<p>But no—the government
had other ideas. A bunch of
bigshot scientific characters
had come up with the idea
nearly twenty-three years before.
Clayton could remember
the words on the sheet he had
been given when he was sentenced.</p>
<p>“Mankind is inherently an
adaptable animal. If we are to
colonize the planets of the
Solar System, we must meet
the conditions on those planets
as best we can.</p>
<p>“Financially, it is impracticable
to change an entire
planet from its original condition
to one which will support
human life as it exists on
Terra.</p>
<p>“But man, since he is adaptable,
can change himself—modify
his structure slightly—so
that he can live on these
planets with only a minimum
of change in the environment.”</p>
<hr />
<p>So they made you live outside
and like it. So you froze
and you choked and you suffered.</p>
<p>Clayton hated Mars. He
hated the thin air and the
cold. More than anything, he
hated the cold.</p>
<p>Ron Clayton wanted to go
home.</p>
<p>The Recreation Building
was just ahead; at least it
would be warm inside. He
pushed in through the outer
and inner doors, and he heard
the burst of music from the
jukebox. His stomach tightened
up into a hard cramp.</p>
<p>They were playing Heinlein’s
<i>Green Hills of Earth</i>.</p>
<p>There was almost no other
sound in the room, although
it was full of people. There
were plenty of colonists who
claimed to like Mars, but even
they were silent when that
song was played.</p>
<p>Clayton wanted to go over
and smash the machine—make
it stop reminding him.
He clenched his teeth and his
fists and his eyes and cursed
mentally. <i>God, how I hate
Mars!</i></p>
<hr />
<p>When the hauntingly nostalgic
last chorus faded away,
he walked over to the machine
and fed it full of enough coins
to keep it going on something
else until he left.</p>
<p>At the bar, he ordered a
beer and used it to wash down
another oxidation tablet. It
wasn’t good beer; it didn’t
even deserve the name. The
atmospheric pressure was so
low as to boil all the carbon
dioxide out of it, so the brewers
never put it back in after
fermentation.</p>
<p>He was sorry for what he
had done—really and truly
sorry. If they’d only give him
one more chance, he’d make
good. Just one more chance.
He’d work things out.</p>
<p>He’d promised himself that
both times they’d put him up
before, but things had been
different then. He hadn’t really
been given another chance,
what with parole boards and
all.</p>
<p>Clayton closed his eyes and
finished the beer. He ordered
another.</p>
<p>He’d worked in the mines
for fifteen years. It wasn’t
that he minded work really,
but the foreman had it in for
him. Always giving him a bad
time; always picking out the
lousy jobs for him.</p>
<p>Like the time he’d crawled
into a side-boring in Tunnel
12 for a nap during lunch and
the foreman had caught him.
When he promised never to
do it again if the foreman
wouldn’t put it on report, the
guy said, “Yeah. Sure. Hate
to hurt a guy’s record.”</p>
<p>Then he’d put Clayton on
report anyway. Strictly a rat.</p>
<p>Not that Clayton ran any
chance of being fired; they
never fired anybody. But
they’d fined him a day’s pay.
A whole day’s pay.</p>
<p>He tapped his glass on the
bar, and the barman came
over with another beer. Clayton
looked at it, then up at
the barman. “Put a head on
it.”</p>
<p>The bartender looked at
him sourly. “I’ve got some
soapsuds here, Clayton, and
one of these days I’m gonna
put some in your beer if you
keep pulling that gag.”</p>
<p>That was the trouble with
some guys. No sense of humor.</p>
<p>Somebody came in the door
and then somebody else came
in behind him, so that both
inner and outer doors were
open for an instant. A blast
of icy breeze struck Clayton’s
back, and he shivered. He
started to say something, then
changed his mind; the doors
were already closed again,
and besides, one of the guys
was bigger than he was.</p>
<p>The iciness didn’t seem to
go away immediately. It was
like the mine. Little old Mars
was cold clear down to her
core—or at least down as far
as they’d drilled. The walls
were frozen and seemed to
radiate a chill that pulled the
heat right out of your blood.</p>
<p>Somebody was playing
<i>Green Hills</i> again, damn them.
Evidently all of his own selections
had run out earlier than
he’d thought they would.</p>
<p>Hell! There was nothing to
do here. He might as well go
home.</p>
<p>“Gimme another beer,
Mac.”</p>
<p>He’d go home as soon as he
finished this one.</p>
<p>He stood there with his eyes
closed, listening to the music
and hating Mars.</p>
<p>A voice next to him said:
“I’ll have a whiskey.”</p>
<hr />
<p>The voice sounded as if the
man had a bad cold, and Clayton
turned slowly to look at
him. After all the sterilization
they went through before they
left Earth, nobody on Mars
ever had a cold, so there was
only one thing that would
make a man’s voice sound
like that.</p>
<p>Clayton was right. The fellow
had an oxygen tube
clamped firmly over his nose.
He was wearing the uniform
of the Space Transport Service.</p>
<p>“Just get in on the ship?”
Clayton asked conversationally.</p>
<p>The man nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. Four hours before
we take off again.” He poured
down the whiskey. “Sure cold
out.”</p>
<p>Clayton agreed. “It’s always
cold.” He watched enviously
as the spaceman ordered
another whiskey.</p>
<p>Clayton couldn’t afford
whiskey. He probably could
have by this time, if the mines
had made him a foreman, like
they should have.</p>
<p>Maybe he could talk the
spaceman out of a couple of
drinks.</p>
<p>“My name’s Clayton. Ron
Clayton.”</p>
<p>The spaceman took the offered
hand. “Mine’s Parkinson,
but everybody calls me
Parks.”</p>
<p>“Sure, Parks. Uh—can I
buy you a beer?”</p>
<p>Parks shook his head. “No,
thanks. I started on whiskey.
Here, let me buy you one.”</p>
<p>“Well—thanks. Don’t mind
if I do.”</p>
<p>They drank them in silence,
and Parks ordered two more.</p>
<p>“Been here long?” Parks
asked.</p>
<p>“Fifteen years. Fifteen
long, long years.”</p>
<p>“Did you—uh—I mean—”
Parks looked suddenly confused.</p>
<p>Clayton glanced quickly to
make sure the bartender was
out of earshot. Then he grinned.
“You mean am I a convict?
Nah. I came here because
I wanted to. But—” He
lowered his voice. “—we don’t
talk about it around here. You
know.” He gestured with one
hand—a gesture that took in
everyone else in the room.</p>
<p>Parks glanced around
quickly, moving only his eyes.
“Yeah. I see,” he said softly.</p>
<p>“This your first trip?” asked
Clayton.</p>
<p>“First one to Mars. Been on
the Luna run a long time.”</p>
<p>“Low pressure bother you
much?”</p>
<p>“Not much. We only keep it
at six pounds in the ships.
Half helium and half oxygen.
Only thing that bothers me is
the oxy here. Or rather, the
oxy that <i>isn’t</i> here.” He took
a deep breath through his
nose tube to emphasize his
point.</p>
<p>Clayton clamped his teeth
together, making the muscles
at the side of his jaw stand
out.</p>
<p>Parks didn’t notice. “You
guys have to take those pills,
don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“I had to take them once.
Got stranded on Luna. The cat
I was in broke down eighty
some miles from Aristarchus
Base and I had to walk back—with
my oxy low. Well, I
figured—”</p>
<hr />
<p>Clayton listened to Parks’
story with a great show of attention,
but he had heard it
before. This “lost on the
moon” stuff and its variations
had been going the rounds for
forty years. Every once in a
while, it actually did happen
to someone; just often enough
to keep the story going.</p>
<p>This guy did have a couple
of new twists, but not enough
to make the story worthwhile.</p>
<p>“Boy,” Clayton said when
Parks had finished, “you were
lucky to come out of that
alive!”</p>
<p>Parks nodded, well pleased
with himself, and bought another
round of drinks.</p>
<p>“Something like that happened
to me a couple of years
ago,” Clayton began. “I’m
supervisor on the third shift
in the mines at Xanthe, but
at the time, I was only a foreman.
One day, a couple of
guys went to a branch tunnel
to—”</p>
<p>It was a very good story.
Clayton had made it up himself,
so he knew that Parks
had never heard it before. It
was gory in just the right
places, with a nice effect at
the end.</p>
<p>“—so I had to hold up the
rocks with my back while the
rescue crew pulled the others
out of the tunnel by crawling
between my legs. Finally, they
got some steel beams down
there to take the load off, and
I could let go. I was in the
hospital for a week,” he finished.</p>
<p>Parks was nodding vaguely.
Clayton looked up at the clock
above the bar and realized
that they had been talking for
better than an hour. Parks
was buying another round.</p>
<p>Parks was a hell of a nice
fellow.</p>
<p>There was, Clayton found,
only one trouble with Parks.
He got to talking so loud that
the bartender refused to serve
either one of them any more.</p>
<hr />
<p>The bartender said Clayton
was getting loud, too, but it
was just because he had to
talk loud to make Parks hear
him.</p>
<p>Clayton helped Parks put
his mask and parka on and
they walked out into the cold
night.</p>
<p>Parks began to sing <i>Green
Hills</i>. About halfway through,
he stopped and turned to
Clayton.</p>
<p>“I’m from Indiana.”</p>
<p>Clayton had already spotted
him as an American by his
accent.</p>
<p>“Indiana? That’s nice. Real
nice.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. You talk about
green hills, we got green hills
in Indiana. What time is it?”</p>
<p>Clayton told him.</p>
<p>“Jeez-krise! Ol’ spaship
takes off in an hour. Ought
to have one more drink first.”</p>
<p>Clayton realized he didn’t
like Parks. But maybe he’d
buy a bottle.</p>
<p>Sharkie Johnson worked in
Fuels Section, and he made a
nice little sideline of stealing
alcohol, cutting it, and selling
it. He thought it was real
funny to call it Martian Gin.</p>
<p>Clayton said: “Let’s go over
to Sharkie’s. Sharkie will sell
us a bottle.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” said Parks. “We’ll
get a bottle. That’s what we
need: a bottle.”</p>
<p>It was quite a walk to the
Shark’s place. It was so cold
that even Parks was beginning
to sober up a little. He
was laughing like hell when
Clayton started to sing.</p>
<div class="poem" style="width: 15em;"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“We’re going over to the Shark’s<br/></span>
<span class="i0">To buy a jug of gin for Parks!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>One thing about a few
drinks; you didn’t get so cold.
You didn’t feel it too much,
anyway.</p>
<hr />
<p>The Shark still had his light
on when they arrived. Clayton
whispered to Parks: “I’ll go
in. He knows me. He wouldn’t
sell it if you were around. You
got eight credits?”</p>
<p>“Sure I got eight credits.
Just a minute, and I’ll give
you eight credits.” He fished
around for a minute inside his
parka, and pulled out his
notecase. His gloved fingers
were a little clumsy, but he
managed to get out a five and
three ones and hand them to
Clayton.</p>
<p>“You wait out here,” Clayton
said.</p>
<p>He went in through the
outer door and knocked on the
inner one. He should have
asked for ten credits. Sharkie
only charged five, and that
would leave him three for
himself. But he could have got
ten—maybe more.</p>
<p>When he came out with the
bottle, Parks was sitting on
a rock, shivering.</p>
<p>“Jeez-krise!” he said. “It’s
cold out here. Let’s get to
someplace where it’s warm.”</p>
<p>“Sure. I got the bottle.
Want a drink?”</p>
<p>Parks took the bottle, opened
it, and took a good belt out
of it.</p>
<p>“Hooh!” he breathed.
“Pretty smooth.”</p>
<p>As Clayton drank, Parks
said: “Hey! I better get back
to the field! I know! We can
go to the men’s room and
finish the bottle before the
ship takes off! Isn’t that a
good idea? It’s warm there.”</p>
<p>They started back down the
street toward the spacefield.</p>
<p>“Yep, I’m from Indiana.
Southern part, down around
Bloomington,” Parks said.
“Gimme the jug. Not Bloomington,
Illinois—Bloomington,
Indiana. We really got
green hills down there.” He
drank, and handed the bottle
back to Clayton. “Pers-nally,
I don’t see why anybody’d
stay on Mars. Here y’are,
practic’ly on the equator in
the middle of the summer, and
it’s colder than hell. Brrr!</p>
<p>“Now if you was smart,
you’d go home, where it’s
warm. Mars wasn’t built for
people to live on, anyhow. I
don’t see how you stand it.”</p>
<p>That was when Clayton
decided he really hated Parks.</p>
<p>And when Parks said:
“Why be dumb, friend? Whyn’t
you go home?” Clayton
kicked him in the stomach,
hard.</p>
<p>“And that, that—” Clayton
said as Parks doubled over.</p>
<p>He said it again as he kicked
him in the head. And in
the ribs. Parks was gasping
as he writhed on the ground,
but he soon lay still.</p>
<p>Then Clayton saw why.
Parks’ nose tube had come off
when Clayton’s foot struck
his head.</p>
<p>Parks was breathing heavily,
but he wasn’t getting any
oxygen.</p>
<p>That was when the Big
Idea hit Ron Clayton. With a
nosepiece on like that, you
couldn’t tell who a man was.
He took another drink from
the jug and then began to
take Parks’ clothes off.</p>
<p>The uniform fit Clayton
fine, and so did the nose mask.
He dumped his own clothing
on top of Parks’ nearly nude
body, adjusted the little oxygen
tank so that the gas would
flow properly through the
mask, took the first deep
breath of good air he’d had
in fifteen years, and walked
toward the spacefield.</p>
<hr />
<p>He went into the men’s
room at the Port Building,
took a drink, and felt in the
pockets of the uniform for
Parks’ identification. He
found it and opened the booklet.
It read:</p>
<p class="center">PARKINSON, HERBERT J.<br/>
Steward 2nd Class, STS</p>
<p>Above it was a photo, and a
set of fingerprints.</p>
<p>Clayton grinned. They’d
never know it wasn’t Parks
getting on the ship.</p>
<p>Parks was a steward, too.
A cook’s helper. That was
good. If he’d been a jetman or
something like that, the crew
might wonder why he wasn’t
on duty at takeoff. But a steward
was different.</p>
<p>Clayton sat for several minutes,
looking through the
booklet and drinking from the
bottle. He emptied it just before
the warning sirens keened
through the thin air.</p>
<p>Clayton got up and went
outside toward the ship.</p>
<p>“Wake up! Hey, you! Wake
up!”</p>
<p>Somebody was slapping his
cheeks. Clayton opened his
eyes and looked at the blurred
face over his own.</p>
<p>From a distance, another
voice said: “Who is it?”</p>
<p>The blurred face said: “I
don’t know. He was asleep
behind these cases. I think
he’s drunk.”</p>
<p>Clayton wasn’t drunk—he
was sick. His head felt like
hell. Where the devil was he?</p>
<p>“Get up, bud. Come on, get
up!”</p>
<p>Clayton pulled himself up
by holding to the man’s arm.
The effort made him dizzy
and nauseated.</p>
<p>The other man said: “Take
him down to sick bay, Casey.
Get some thiamin into him.”</p>
<p>Clayton didn’t struggle as
they led him down to the sick
bay. He was trying to clear
his head. Where was he? He
must have been pretty drunk
last night.</p>
<p>He remembered meeting
Parks. And getting thrown
out by the bartender. Then
what?</p>
<p>Oh, yeah. He’d gone to the
Shark’s for a bottle. From
there on, it was mostly gone.
He remembered a fight or
something, but that was all
that registered.</p>
<p>The medic in the sick bay
fired two shots from a hypo-gun
into both arms, but Clayton
ignored the slight sting.</p>
<p>“Where am I?”</p>
<p>“Real original. Here, take
these.” He handed Clayton a
couple of capsules, and gave
him a glass of water to wash
them down with.</p>
<p>When the water hit his
stomach, there was an immediate
reaction.</p>
<p>“Oh, Christ!” the medic
said. “Get a mop, somebody.
Here, bud; heave into this.”
He put a basin on the table
in front of Clayton.</p>
<p>It took them the better part
of an hour to get Clayton
awake enough to realize what
was going on and where he
was. Even then, he was
plenty groggy.</p>
<hr />
<p>It was the First Officer of
the STS-52 who finally got the
story straight. As soon as
Clayton was in condition, the
medic and the quartermaster
officer who had found him
took him up to the First Officer’s
compartment.</p>
<p>“I was checking through
the stores this morning when
I found this man. He was
asleep, dead drunk, behind the
crates.”</p>
<p>“He was drunk, all right,”
supplied the medic. “I found
this in his pocket.” He flipped
a booklet to the First Officer.</p>
<p>The First was a young man,
not older than twenty-eight
with tough-looking gray eyes.
He looked over the booklet.</p>
<p>“Where did you get Parkinson’s
ID booklet? And his uniform?”</p>
<p>Clayton looked down at his
clothes in wonder. “I don’t
know.”</p>
<p>“You <i>don’t know</i>? That’s a
hell of an answer.”</p>
<p>“Well, I was drunk,” Clayton
said defensively. “A man
doesn’t know what he’s doing
when he’s drunk.” He frowned
in concentration. He knew
he’d have to think up some
story.</p>
<p>“I kind of remember we
made a bet. I bet him I could
get on the ship. Sure—I remember,
now. That’s what
happened; I bet him I could
get on the ship and we traded
clothes.”</p>
<p>“Where is he now?”</p>
<p>“At my place, sleeping it
off, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Without his oxy-mask?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I gave him my oxidation
pills for the mask.”</p>
<p>The First shook his head.
“That sounds like the kind of
trick Parkinson would pull, all
right. I’ll have to write it up
and turn you both in to the
authorities when we hit
Earth.” He eyed Clayton.
“What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Cartwright. Sam Cartwright,”
Clayton said without
batting an eye.</p>
<p>“Volunteer or convicted
colonist?”</p>
<p>“Volunteer.”</p>
<p>The First looked at him for
a long moment, disbelief in
his eyes.</p>
<p>It didn’t matter. Volunteer
or convict, there was no place
Clayton could go. From the
officer’s viewpoint, he was as
safely imprisoned in the
spaceship as he would be on
Mars or a prison on Earth.</p>
<hr />
<p>The First wrote in the log
book, and then said: “Well,
we’re one man short in the
kitchen. You wanted to take
Parkinson’s place; brother,
you’ve got it—without pay.”
He paused for a moment.</p>
<p>“You know, of course,” he
said judiciously, “that you’ll
be shipped back to Mars immediately.
And you’ll have to
work out your passage both
ways—it will be deducted
from your pay.”</p>
<p>Clayton nodded. “I know.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what else
will happen. If there’s a conviction,
you may lose your
volunteer status on Mars. And
there may be fines taken out
of your pay, too.</p>
<p>“Well, that’s all, Cartwright.
You can report to
Kissman in the kitchen.”</p>
<p>The First pressed a button
on his desk and spoke into the
intercom. “Who was on duty
at the airlock when the crew
came aboard last night? Send
him up. I want to talk to him.”</p>
<p>Then the quartermaster officer
led Clayton out the door
and took him to the kitchen.</p>
<p>The ship’s driver tubes
were pushing it along at a
steady five hundred centimeters
per second squared acceleration,
pushing her steadily
closer to Earth with a little
more than half a gravity of
drive.</p>
<hr />
<p>There wasn’t much for
Clayton to do, really. He helped
to select the foods that
went into the automatics, and
he cleaned them out after each
meal was cooked. Once every
day, he had to partially dismantle
them for a really thorough
going-over.</p>
<p>And all the time, he was
thinking.</p>
<p>Parkinson must be dead;
he knew that. That meant the
Chamber. And even if he wasn’t,
they’d send Clayton back
to Mars. Luckily, there was no
way for either planet to communicate
with the ship; it was
hard enough to keep a beam
trained on a planet without
trying to hit such a comparatively
small thing as a ship.</p>
<p>But they would know about
it on Earth by now. They
would pick him up the instant
the ship landed. And the best
he could hope for was a return
to Mars.</p>
<p>No, by God! He wouldn’t
go back to that frozen mud-ball!
He’d stay on Earth,
where it was warm and comfortable
and a man could live
where he was meant to live.
Where there was plenty of
air to breathe and plenty of
water to drink. Where the
beer tasted like beer and not
like slop. Earth. Good green
hills, the like of which exists
nowhere else.</p>
<p>Slowly, over the days, he
evolved a plan. He watched
and waited and checked each
little detail to make sure nothing
would go wrong. It <i>couldn’t</i>
go wrong. He didn’t want
to die, and he didn’t want to
go back to Mars.</p>
<p>Nobody on the ship liked
him; they couldn’t appreciate
his position. He hadn’t done
anything to them, but they
just didn’t like him. He didn’t
know why; he’d <i>tried</i> to get
along with them. Well, if they
didn’t like him, the hell with
them.</p>
<p>If things worked out the
way he figured, they’d be
damned sorry.</p>
<p>He was very clever about
the whole plan. When turn-over
came, he pretended to
get violently spacesick. That
gave him an opportunity to
steal a bottle of chloral hydrate
from the medic’s locker.</p>
<p>And, while he worked in the
kitchen, he spent a great deal
of time sharpening a big carving
knife.</p>
<p>Once, during his off time,
he managed to disable one of
the ship’s two lifeboats. He
was saving the other for himself.</p>
<p>The ship was eight hours
out from Earth and still decelerating
when Clayton pulled
his getaway.</p>
<hr />
<p>It was surprisingly easy.
He was supposed to be asleep
when he sneaked down to the
drive compartment with the
knife. He pushed open the
door, looked in, and grinned
like an ape.</p>
<p>The Engineer and the two
jetmen were out cold from the
chloral hydrate in the coffee
from the kitchen.</p>
<p>Moving rapidly, he went to
the spares locker and began
methodically to smash every
replacement part for the
drivers. Then he took three
of the signal bombs from the
emergency kit, set them for
five minutes, and placed them
around the driver circuits.</p>
<p>He looked at the three sleeping
men. What if they woke
up before the bombs went off?
He didn’t want to kill them
though. He wanted them to
know what had happened and
who had done it.</p>
<p>He grinned. There was a
way. He simply had to drag
them outside and jam the door
lock. He took the key from the
Engineer, inserted it, turned
it, and snapped off the head,
leaving the body of the key
still in the lock. Nobody would
unjam it in the next four minutes.</p>
<p>Then he began to run up
the stairwell toward the good
lifeboat.</p>
<p>He was panting and out of
breath when he arrived, but
no one had stopped him. No
one had even seen him.</p>
<p>He clambered into the lifeboat,
made everything ready,
and waited.</p>
<p>The signal bombs were not
heavy charges; their main
purposes was to make a flare
bright enough to be seen for
thousands of miles in space.
Fluorine and magnesium
made plenty of light—and
heat.</p>
<p>Quite suddenly, there was
no gravity. He had felt nothing,
but he knew that the
bombs had exploded. He
punched the LAUNCH switch
on the control board of the
lifeboat, and the little ship
leaped out from the side of the
greater one.</p>
<p>Then he turned on the
drive, set it at half a gee, and
watched the STS-52 drop behind
him. It was no longer
decelerating, so it would miss
Earth and drift on into space.
On the other hand, the lifeship
would come down very
neatly within a few hundred
miles of the spaceport in
Utah, the destination of the
STS-52.</p>
<p>Landing the lifeship would
be the only difficult part of
the maneuver, but they were
designed to be handled by beginners.
Full instructions
were printed on the simplified
control board.</p>
<hr />
<p>Clayton studied them for
a while, then set the alarm to
waken him in seven hours and
dozed off to sleep.</p>
<p>He dreamed of Indiana. It
was full of nice, green hills
and leafy woods, and Parkinson
was inviting him over to
his mother’s house for chicken
and whiskey. And all for free.</p>
<p>Beneath the dream was the
calm assurance that they
would never catch him and
send him back. When the
STS-52 failed to show up,
they would think he had been
lost with it. They would never
look for him.</p>
<p>When the alarm rang,
Earth was a mottled globe
looming hugely beneath the
ship. Clayton watched the
dials on the board, and began
to follow the instructions on
the landing sheet.</p>
<p>He wasn’t too good at it.
The accelerometer climbed
higher and higher, and he felt
as though he could hardly
move his hands to the proper
switches.</p>
<p>He was less than fifteen
feet off the ground when his
hand slipped. The ship, out of
control, shifted, spun, and
toppled over on its side,
smashing a great hole in the
cabin.</p>
<p>Clayton shook his head and
tried to stand up in the wreckage.
He got to his hands and
knees, dizzy but unhurt, and
took a deep breath of the fresh
air that was blowing in
through the hole in the cabin.</p>
<p>It felt just like home.</p>
<hr />
<div class="lt">
<p>Bureau of Criminal Investigation<br/>
Regional Headquarters<br/>
Cheyenne, Wyoming<br/>
20 January 2102</p>
</div>
<p class="cl">To: Space Transport Service<br/>
Subject: Lifeship 2, STS-52<br/>
Attention Mr. P. D. Latimer</p>
<p>Dear Paul,</p>
<p>I have on hand the copies
of your reports on the rescue
of the men on the disabled
STS-52. It is fortunate that
the Lunar radar stations could
compute their orbit.</p>
<p>The detailed official report
will follow, but briefly, this is
what happened:</p>
<p>The lifeship landed—or,
rather, crashed—several miles
west of Cheyenne, as you
know, but it was impossible
to find the man who was piloting
it until yesterday because
of the weather.</p>
<p>He has been identified as
Ronald Watkins Clayton, exiled
to Mars fifteen years ago.</p>
<p>Evidently, he didn’t realize
that fifteen years of Martian
gravity had so weakened his
muscles that he could hardly
walk under the pull of a full
Earth gee.</p>
<p>As it was, he could only
crawl about a hundred yards
from the wrecked lifeship before
he collapsed.</p>
<p>Well, I hope this clears up
everything.</p>
<p>I hope you’re not getting
the snow storms up there like
we’ve been getting them.</p>
<div class="lt"><p>John B. Remley<br/>
Captain, CBI</p>
</div>
<p class="theend"><b>THE END</b></p>
<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b><br/>
This etext was produced from <i>Amazing Stories</i> September 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div>
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