The prize was sealed, its contents unknown.
Yet scavengers from a dozen barbaric Moons;
adventurers from nameless, semi-explored
asteroids, arrived for the deathless
auction.... To bid on Roper's notorious loot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They were bringing in the prisoners who had escaped from Phobos. Sandskimmer ambulances had raced to the spaceport outside the terracedMartian city and waited. Dust devils danced on the wide, wind-whippedMartian plains. Grannar of the Police and his silent companion examinedeach body as it was lowered from the rescue ship.
Death anywhere is an ugly business. On Mars, you get used to bodiesthat never rot. Deep-freeze temperatures hold down decay bacteria, andthe dry, cold air quickly dessicates the tissue. Bodies turn intomummies that look and weigh like so much shredded wheat. But thesecorpses were worse—they were meaningless parodies that might neverhave been men. In primal disgust, Torry studied each one in turn, thenshuddered and shook his head.
Grannar was tough minded, or stronger stomached. Police routines hadtaught him not to shudder.
"You can get used to this," he observed, enjoying Torry's revulsion."Since you'd known Roper, we thought you could help us identify him.Thanks for coming along."
"Had I a choice?" asked Torry bitterly.
The policeman's laugh was brutal, explosive. "There is always a choice.You can do as you're told or be dragged in screaming."
Torry grimaced. "Much more of this and I'll be dragged out screaming."
The prisoner-escapees, what was left of them, were an unpleasantsight. Explosive decompression in airless space does curious things tomen's bodies. Blood boils in the veins and flesh bursts from internalpressures. Also, there are heat-cold curiosities, with half a bodyburnt raw on the sunward side, and the rest frozen iron-hard with alacy overlay of snowflake patterns in red.
Holden was still alive, by a miracle. Forward compartments had heldtogether when the makeshift spacer blew its flimsy self inside out. Hewas alive but not talking. They brought the bulging mass of pulped,purple flesh back to Mars and dumped it in a basket. There was no face,no eyes, no recognizable hands or feet. For the time that remained tohim, Holden would be less than a functioning animal, fed by tube, caredfor by people he could not see or hear, living a precarious existenceon the raw, black fringe of life. Holden was through talking. And forany practical purpose, through living.
"Too bad," said Grannar, looking into the basket. "He could have toldus about a lot of things ... if he'd wanted to."
"Holden was a nice guy before he knew Bart Roper," Torry snappedangrily.
"You sound pretty bitter about Roper."
"I should be. I know him better than you do. I am bitter about Roper."
"Because of Holden?" pressed Grannar.
"Not ... Holden. But it might as easily have been me in that basket.Six years ago I was Roper's partner. I got out quickly when I found outsome of his business methods. And I had very little he could steal fromme then. A lot of people have a variety of good reasons to hate Roper.Just say that I'm one of them."
Grannar whistled a Martian tune. The sound was shrill and eery in thethin air.
"You may as well ride back to the city in the police car with me," hesuggested. "We can talk—"
"Talk!" blurted Torry. He swore savagely. "All this ugly businessfor nothing. You haven't found Roper yet. You don't even know if hema