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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Man Who Hated Mars, by Randall Garrett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Man Who Hated Mars
+
+Author: Randall Garrett
+
+Release Date: May 30, 2008 [eBook #25644]
+[Most recently updated: October 19, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS ***
+
+
+
+
+_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—_
+
+
+
+
+The Man Who Hated Mars
+
+By RANDALL GARRETT
+
+
+“I WANT you to put me in prison!” the big, hairy man said in a
+trembling voice.
+
+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:
+
+LT. PHOEBE HARRIS
+TERRAN REHABILITATION SERVICE
+
+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.
+
+He said: “Well? Dammit, say something!”
+
+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.
+
+[Illustration] The frightful carnage would go down in the bloody
+history of space.
+
+Clayton froze. _She’s yellow!_ 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.
+
+She had thought he was going to jump her. _Little rat!_ he thought,
+_somebody ought to slap her down!_
+
+He watched her check through the heavy dossier in front of her.
+Finally, she looked up at him again.
+
+“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.”
+
+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—
+
+Lieutenant Harris went on: “I’m afraid you can’t back down now.”
+
+“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!”
+
+“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.
+
+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—”
+
+“_Shut up!_” 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.
+
+“Just keep it in mind that I don’t like it any better than you do—_and
+I didn’t strong-arm anybody to deserve the assignment!_ Now get out of
+here!”
+
+She moved a hand threateningly toward the manual controls of the stun
+beam.
+
+Clayton retreated fast. The trackers ignored anyone walking away from
+the desk; they were set only to spot threatening movements toward it.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+There was a high, thin piping in the sky above him which quickly became
+a scream in the thin air.
+
+He turned for a moment to watch the ship land, squinting his eyes to
+see the number on the hull.
+
+Fifty-two. Space Transport Ship Fifty-two.
+
+Probably bringing another load of poor suckers to freeze to death on
+Mars.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+
+So they made you live outside and like it. So you froze and you choked
+and you suffered.
+
+Clayton hated Mars. He hated the thin air and the cold. More than
+anything, he hated the cold.
+
+Ron Clayton wanted to go home.
+
+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.
+
+They were playing Heinlein’s _Green Hills of Earth_.
+
+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.
+
+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. _God, how I hate Mars!_
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton closed his eyes and finished the beer. He ordered another.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+Then he’d put Clayton on report anyway. Strictly a rat.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+That was the trouble with some guys. No sense of humor.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Somebody was playing _Green Hills_ again, damn them. Evidently all of
+his own selections had run out earlier than he’d thought they would.
+
+Hell! There was nothing to do here. He might as well go home.
+
+“Gimme another beer, Mac.”
+
+He’d go home as soon as he finished this one.
+
+He stood there with his eyes closed, listening to the music and hating
+Mars.
+
+A voice next to him said: “I’ll have a whiskey.”
+
+
+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.
+
+Clayton was right. The fellow had an oxygen tube clamped firmly over
+his nose. He was wearing the uniform of the Space Transport Service.
+
+“Just get in on the ship?” Clayton asked conversationally.
+
+The man nodded and grinned. “Yeah. Four hours before we take off
+again.” He poured down the whiskey. “Sure cold out.”
+
+Clayton agreed. “It’s always cold.” He watched enviously as the
+spaceman ordered another whiskey.
+
+Clayton couldn’t afford whiskey. He probably could have by this time,
+if the mines had made him a foreman, like they should have.
+
+Maybe he could talk the spaceman out of a couple of drinks.
+
+“My name’s Clayton. Ron Clayton.”
+
+The spaceman took the offered hand. “Mine’s Parkinson, but everybody
+calls me Parks.”
+
+“Sure, Parks. Uh—can I buy you a beer?”
+
+Parks shook his head. “No, thanks. I started on whiskey. Here, let me
+buy you one.”
+
+“Well—thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
+
+They drank them in silence, and Parks ordered two more.
+
+“Been here long?” Parks asked.
+
+“Fifteen years. Fifteen long, long years.”
+
+“Did you—uh—I mean—” Parks looked suddenly confused.
+
+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.
+
+Parks glanced around quickly, moving only his eyes. “Yeah. I see,” he
+said softly.
+
+“This your first trip?” asked Clayton.
+
+“First one to Mars. Been on the Luna run a long time.”
+
+“Low pressure bother you much?”
+
+“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 _isn’t_ here.” He took a deep breath through his nose tube to
+emphasize his point.
+
+Clayton clamped his teeth together, making the muscles at the side of
+his jaw stand out.
+
+Parks didn’t notice. “You guys have to take those pills, don’t you?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“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—”
+
+
+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.
+
+This guy did have a couple of new twists, but not enough to make the
+story worthwhile.
+
+“Boy,” Clayton said when Parks had finished, “you were lucky to come
+out of that alive!”
+
+Parks nodded, well pleased with himself, and bought another round of
+drinks.
+
+“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—”
+
+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.
+
+“—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.
+
+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.
+
+Parks was a hell of a nice fellow.
+
+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.
+
+
+The bartender said Clayton was getting loud, too, but it was just
+because he had to talk loud to make Parks hear him.
+
+Clayton helped Parks put his mask and parka on and they walked out into
+the cold night.
+
+Parks began to sing _Green Hills_. About halfway through, he stopped
+and turned to Clayton.
+
+“I’m from Indiana.”
+
+Clayton had already spotted him as an American by his accent.
+
+“Indiana? That’s nice. Real nice.”
+
+“Yeah. You talk about green hills, we got green hills in Indiana. What
+time is it?”
+
+Clayton told him.
+
+“Jeez-krise! Ol’ spaship takes off in an hour. Ought to have one more
+drink first.”
+
+Clayton realized he didn’t like Parks. But maybe he’d buy a bottle.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton said: “Let’s go over to Sharkie’s. Sharkie will sell us a
+bottle.”
+
+“Okay,” said Parks. “We’ll get a bottle. That’s what we need: a
+bottle.”
+
+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.
+
+“We’re going over to the Shark’s
+To buy a jug of gin for Parks!
+Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!”
+
+One thing about a few drinks; you didn’t get so cold. You didn’t feel
+it too much, anyway.
+
+
+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?”
+
+“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.
+
+“You wait out here,” Clayton said.
+
+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.
+
+When he came out with the bottle, Parks was sitting on a rock,
+shivering.
+
+“Jeez-krise!” he said. “It’s cold out here. Let’s get to someplace
+where it’s warm.”
+
+“Sure. I got the bottle. Want a drink?”
+
+Parks took the bottle, opened it, and took a good belt out of it.
+
+“Hooh!” he breathed. “Pretty smooth.”
+
+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.”
+
+They started back down the street toward the spacefield.
+
+“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!
+
+“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.”
+
+That was when Clayton decided he really hated Parks.
+
+And when Parks said: “Why be dumb, friend? Whyn’t you go home?” Clayton
+kicked him in the stomach, hard.
+
+“And that, that—” Clayton said as Parks doubled over.
+
+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.
+
+Then Clayton saw why. Parks’ nose tube had come off when Clayton’s foot
+struck his head.
+
+Parks was breathing heavily, but he wasn’t getting any oxygen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+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:
+
+PARKINSON, HERBERT J.
+Steward 2nd Class, STS
+
+Above it was a photo, and a set of fingerprints.
+
+Clayton grinned. They’d never know it wasn’t Parks getting on the ship.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton got up and went outside toward the ship.
+
+“Wake up! Hey, you! Wake up!”
+
+Somebody was slapping his cheeks. Clayton opened his eyes and looked at
+the blurred face over his own.
+
+From a distance, another voice said: “Who is it?”
+
+The blurred face said: “I don’t know. He was asleep behind these cases.
+I think he’s drunk.”
+
+Clayton wasn’t drunk—he was sick. His head felt like hell. Where the
+devil was he?
+
+“Get up, bud. Come on, get up!”
+
+Clayton pulled himself up by holding to the man’s arm. The effort made
+him dizzy and nauseated.
+
+The other man said: “Take him down to sick bay, Casey. Get some thiamin
+into him.”
+
+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.
+
+He remembered meeting Parks. And getting thrown out by the bartender.
+Then what?
+
+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.
+
+The medic in the sick bay fired two shots from a hypo-gun into both
+arms, but Clayton ignored the slight sting.
+
+“Where am I?”
+
+“Real original. Here, take these.” He handed Clayton a couple of
+capsules, and gave him a glass of water to wash them down with.
+
+When the water hit his stomach, there was an immediate reaction.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+
+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.
+
+“I was checking through the stores this morning when I found this man.
+He was asleep, dead drunk, behind the crates.”
+
+“He was drunk, all right,” supplied the medic. “I found this in his
+pocket.” He flipped a booklet to the First Officer.
+
+The First was a young man, not older than twenty-eight with
+tough-looking gray eyes. He looked over the booklet.
+
+“Where did you get Parkinson’s ID booklet? And his uniform?”
+
+Clayton looked down at his clothes in wonder. “I don’t know.”
+
+“You _don’t know_? That’s a hell of an answer.”
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Where is he now?”
+
+“At my place, sleeping it off, I guess.”
+
+“Without his oxy-mask?”
+
+“Oh, I gave him my oxidation pills for the mask.”
+
+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?”
+
+“Cartwright. Sam Cartwright,” Clayton said without batting an eye.
+
+“Volunteer or convicted colonist?”
+
+“Volunteer.”
+
+The First looked at him for a long moment, disbelief in his eyes.
+
+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.
+
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+Clayton nodded. “I know.”
+
+“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.
+
+“Well, that’s all, Cartwright. You can report to Kissman in the
+kitchen.”
+
+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.”
+
+Then the quartermaster officer led Clayton out the door and took him to
+the kitchen.
+
+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.
+
+
+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.
+
+And all the time, he was thinking.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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
+_couldn’t_ go wrong. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to go
+back to Mars.
+
+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 _tried_ to get along with them. Well, if they didn’t
+like him, the hell with them.
+
+If things worked out the way he figured, they’d be damned sorry.
+
+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.
+
+And, while he worked in the kitchen, he spent a great deal of time
+sharpening a big carving knife.
+
+Once, during his off time, he managed to disable one of the ship’s two
+lifeboats. He was saving the other for himself.
+
+The ship was eight hours out from Earth and still decelerating when
+Clayton pulled his getaway.
+
+
+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.
+
+The Engineer and the two jetmen were out cold from the chloral hydrate
+in the coffee from the kitchen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Then he began to run up the stairwell toward the good lifeboat.
+
+He was panting and out of breath when he arrived, but no one had
+stopped him. No one had even seen him.
+
+He clambered into the lifeboat, made everything ready, and waited.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+Clayton studied them for a while, then set the alarm to waken him in
+seven hours and dozed off to sleep.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+It felt just like home.
+
+
+Bureau of Criminal Investigation
+Regional Headquarters
+Cheyenne, Wyoming
+20 January 2102
+
+To: Space Transport Service
+Subject: Lifeship 2, STS-52
+Attention Mr. P. D. Latimer
+
+Dear Paul,
+
+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.
+
+The detailed official report will follow, but briefly, this is what
+happened:
+
+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.
+
+He has been identified as Ronald Watkins Clayton, exiled to Mars
+fifteen years ago.
+
+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.
+
+As it was, he could only crawl about a hundred yards from the wrecked
+lifeship before he collapsed.
+
+Well, I hope this clears up everything.
+
+I hope you’re not getting the snow storms up there like we’ve been
+getting them.
+
+John B. Remley
+Captain, CBI
+
+THE END
+
+Transcriber’s Note:
+This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ 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.
+
+
+
+
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+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Man Who Hated Mars</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Randall Garrett</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 30, 2008 [eBook #25644]<br />
+[Most recently updated: October 19, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS ***</div>
+
+<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&mdash;get onto a ship that couldn&rsquo;t be
+boarded&mdash;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&rsquo;t even Clayton any more. He was only&mdash;</i>
+</p></div>
+
+<h1>The Man Who Hated Mars</h1>
+
+<h2>By RANDALL GARRETT</h2>
+
+<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">
+&ldquo;I want</span> you to put me in prison!&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Well? Dammit,
+say something!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The lieutenant raised her
+eyes again. &ldquo;Just be patient
+until I&rsquo;ve read this.&rdquo; Her voice
+and eyes were expressionless,
+but her hand moved beneath
+the desk.</p>
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
+<img src="images/01.jpg" width="700" height="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&rsquo;s yellow!</i>
+he thought. She&rsquo;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>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He nodded slowly. He&rsquo;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&rsquo;t mussed the guy up
+much; besides, it was the
+sucker&rsquo;s own fault. If he hadn&rsquo;t
+tried to yell&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Lieutenant Harris went on:
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid you can&rsquo;t back
+down now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t fair! The most
+I&rsquo;d have got on that frame-up
+would&rsquo;ve been ten years. I&rsquo;ve
+been here fifteen already!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, Clayton. It can&rsquo;t
+be done. You&rsquo;re here. Period.
+Forget about trying to get
+back. Earth doesn&rsquo;t want
+you.&rdquo; Her voice sounded
+choppy, as though she were
+trying to keep it calm.</p>
+
+<p>Clayton broke into a whining
+rage. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t do that!
+It isn&rsquo;t fair! I never did anything
+to you! I&rsquo;ll go talk to the
+Governor! He&rsquo;ll listen to reason!
+You&rsquo;ll see! I&rsquo;ll&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Shut up!</i>&rdquo; the woman
+snapped harshly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m getting
+sick of it! I personally think
+you should have been locked
+up&mdash;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>&ldquo;Just keep it in mind that
+I don&rsquo;t like it any better than
+you do&mdash;<i>and I didn&rsquo;t strong-arm
+anybody to deserve the
+assignment!</i> Now get out of
+here!&rdquo;</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&rsquo;d asked again and
+again&mdash;God only knew how
+many times&mdash;in the past fifteen
+years. Always the same
+answer. No.</p>
+
+<p>When he&rsquo;d heard that this
+new administrator was a
+woman, he&rsquo;d hoped she might
+be easier to convince. She
+wasn&rsquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>&ldquo;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>&ldquo;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>&ldquo;But man, since he is adaptable,
+can change himself&mdash;modify
+his structure slightly&mdash;so
+that he can live on these
+planets with only a minimum
+of change in the environment.&rdquo;</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&rsquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo;t good beer; it didn&rsquo;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&mdash;really and truly
+sorry. If they&rsquo;d only give him
+one more chance, he&rsquo;d make
+good. Just one more chance.
+He&rsquo;d work things out.</p>
+
+<p>He&rsquo;d promised himself that
+both times they&rsquo;d put him up
+before, but things had been
+different then. He hadn&rsquo;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&rsquo;d worked in the mines
+for fifteen years. It wasn&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t put it on report, the
+guy said, &ldquo;Yeah. Sure. Hate
+to hurt a guy&rsquo;s record.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then he&rsquo;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&rsquo;d fined him a day&rsquo;s pay.
+A whole day&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Put a head on
+it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The bartender looked at
+him sourly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got some
+soapsuds here, Clayton, and
+one of these days I&rsquo;m gonna
+put some in your beer if you
+keep pulling that gag.&rdquo;</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t seem to
+go away immediately. It was
+like the mine. Little old Mars
+was cold clear down to her
+core&mdash;or at least down as far
+as they&rsquo;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&rsquo;d thought they would.</p>
+
+<p>Hell! There was nothing to
+do here. He might as well go
+home.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gimme another beer,
+Mac.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He&rsquo;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:
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have a whiskey.&rdquo;</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&rsquo;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>&ldquo;Just get in on the ship?&rdquo;
+Clayton asked conversationally.</p>
+
+<p>The man nodded and grinned.
+&ldquo;Yeah. Four hours before
+we take off again.&rdquo; He poured
+down the whiskey. &ldquo;Sure cold
+out.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton agreed. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s always
+cold.&rdquo; He watched enviously
+as the spaceman ordered
+another whiskey.</p>
+
+<p>Clayton couldn&rsquo;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>&ldquo;My name&rsquo;s Clayton. Ron
+Clayton.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The spaceman took the offered
+hand. &ldquo;Mine&rsquo;s Parkinson,
+but everybody calls me
+Parks.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sure, Parks. Uh&mdash;can I
+buy you a beer?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Parks shook his head. &ldquo;No,
+thanks. I started on whiskey.
+Here, let me buy you one.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well&mdash;thanks. Don&rsquo;t mind
+if I do.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They drank them in silence,
+and Parks ordered two more.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Been here long?&rdquo; Parks
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Fifteen years. Fifteen
+long, long years.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Did you&mdash;uh&mdash;I mean&mdash;&rdquo;
+Parks looked suddenly confused.</p>
+
+<p>Clayton glanced quickly to
+make sure the bartender was
+out of earshot. Then he grinned.
+&ldquo;You mean am I a convict?
+Nah. I came here because
+I wanted to. But&mdash;&rdquo; He
+lowered his voice. &ldquo;&mdash;we don&rsquo;t
+talk about it around here. You
+know.&rdquo; He gestured with one
+hand&mdash;a gesture that took in
+everyone else in the room.</p>
+
+<p>Parks glanced around
+quickly, moving only his eyes.
+&ldquo;Yeah. I see,&rdquo; he said softly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This your first trip?&rdquo; asked
+Clayton.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;First one to Mars. Been on
+the Luna run a long time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Low pressure bother you
+much?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;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&rsquo;t</i> here.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;t notice. &ldquo;You
+guys have to take those pills,
+don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yeah.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;with
+my oxy low. Well, I
+figured&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Clayton listened to Parks&rsquo;
+story with a great show of attention,
+but he had heard it
+before. This &ldquo;lost on the
+moon&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Boy,&rdquo; Clayton said when
+Parks had finished, &ldquo;you were
+lucky to come out of that
+alive!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Parks nodded, well pleased
+with himself, and bought another
+round of drinks.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Something like that happened
+to me a couple of years
+ago,&rdquo; Clayton began. &ldquo;I&rsquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;&mdash;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,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m from Indiana.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton had already spotted
+him as an American by his
+accent.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Indiana? That&rsquo;s nice. Real
+nice.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yeah. You talk about
+green hills, we got green hills
+in Indiana. What time is it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton told him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jeez-krise! Ol&rsquo; spaship
+takes off in an hour. Ought
+to have one more drink first.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton realized he didn&rsquo;t
+like Parks. But maybe he&rsquo;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: &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go over
+to Sharkie&rsquo;s. Sharkie will sell
+us a bottle.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Okay,&rdquo; said Parks. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll
+get a bottle. That&rsquo;s what we
+need: a bottle.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It was quite a walk to the
+Shark&rsquo;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">&ldquo;We&rsquo;re going over to the Shark&rsquo;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!&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>One thing about a few
+drinks; you didn&rsquo;t get so cold.
+You didn&rsquo;t feel it too much,
+anyway.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>The Shark still had his light
+on when they arrived. Clayton
+whispered to Parks: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go
+in. He knows me. He wouldn&rsquo;t
+sell it if you were around. You
+got eight credits?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sure I got eight credits.
+Just a minute, and I&rsquo;ll give
+you eight credits.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;You wait out here,&rdquo; 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&mdash;maybe more.</p>
+
+<p>When he came out with the
+bottle, Parks was sitting on
+a rock, shivering.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jeez-krise!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
+cold out here. Let&rsquo;s get to
+someplace where it&rsquo;s warm.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sure. I got the bottle.
+Want a drink?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Parks took the bottle, opened
+it, and took a good belt out
+of it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hooh!&rdquo; he breathed.
+&ldquo;Pretty smooth.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As Clayton drank, Parks
+said: &ldquo;Hey! I better get back
+to the field! I know! We can
+go to the men&rsquo;s room and
+finish the bottle before the
+ship takes off! Isn&rsquo;t that a
+good idea? It&rsquo;s warm there.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They started back down the
+street toward the spacefield.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yep, I&rsquo;m from Indiana.
+Southern part, down around
+Bloomington,&rdquo; Parks said.
+&ldquo;Gimme the jug. Not Bloomington,
+Illinois&mdash;Bloomington,
+Indiana. We really got
+green hills down there.&rdquo; He
+drank, and handed the bottle
+back to Clayton. &ldquo;Pers-nally,
+I don&rsquo;t see why anybody&rsquo;d
+stay on Mars. Here y&rsquo;are,
+practic&rsquo;ly on the equator in
+the middle of the summer, and
+it&rsquo;s colder than hell. Brrr!</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Now if you was smart,
+you&rsquo;d go home, where it&rsquo;s
+warm. Mars wasn&rsquo;t built for
+people to live on, anyhow. I
+don&rsquo;t see how you stand it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>That was when Clayton
+decided he really hated Parks.</p>
+
+<p>And when Parks said:
+&ldquo;Why be dumb, friend? Whyn&rsquo;t
+you go home?&rdquo; Clayton
+kicked him in the stomach,
+hard.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And that, that&mdash;&rdquo; 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&rsquo; nose tube had come off
+when Clayton&rsquo;s foot struck
+his head.</p>
+
+<p>Parks was breathing heavily,
+but he wasn&rsquo;t getting any
+oxygen.</p>
+
+<p>That was when the Big
+Idea hit Ron Clayton. With a
+nosepiece on like that, you
+couldn&rsquo;t tell who a man was.
+He took another drink from
+the jug and then began to
+take Parks&rsquo; clothes off.</p>
+
+<p>The uniform fit Clayton
+fine, and so did the nose mask.
+He dumped his own clothing
+on top of Parks&rsquo; 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&rsquo;d had
+in fifteen years, and walked
+toward the spacefield.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>He went into the men&rsquo;s
+room at the Port Building,
+took a drink, and felt in the
+pockets of the uniform for
+Parks&rsquo; 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&rsquo;d
+never know it wasn&rsquo;t Parks
+getting on the ship.</p>
+
+<p>Parks was a steward, too.
+A cook&rsquo;s helper. That was
+good. If he&rsquo;d been a jetman or
+something like that, the crew
+might wonder why he wasn&rsquo;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>&ldquo;Wake up! Hey, you! Wake
+up!&rdquo;</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: &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The blurred face said: &ldquo;I
+don&rsquo;t know. He was asleep
+behind these cases. I think
+he&rsquo;s drunk.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton wasn&rsquo;t drunk&mdash;he
+was sick. His head felt like
+hell. Where the devil was he?</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Get up, bud. Come on, get
+up!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton pulled himself up
+by holding to the man&rsquo;s arm.
+The effort made him dizzy
+and nauseated.</p>
+
+<p>The other man said: &ldquo;Take
+him down to sick bay, Casey.
+Get some thiamin into him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton didn&rsquo;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&rsquo;d gone to the
+Shark&rsquo;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>&ldquo;Where am I?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Real original. Here, take
+these.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh, Christ!&rdquo; the medic
+said. &ldquo;Get a mop, somebody.
+Here, bud; heave into this.&rdquo;
+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&rsquo;s
+compartment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was checking through
+the stores this morning when
+I found this man. He was
+asleep, dead drunk, behind the
+crates.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He was drunk, all right,&rdquo;
+supplied the medic. &ldquo;I found
+this in his pocket.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Where did you get Parkinson&rsquo;s
+ID booklet? And his uniform?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton looked down at his
+clothes in wonder. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
+know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You <i>don&rsquo;t know</i>? That&rsquo;s a
+hell of an answer.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, I was drunk,&rdquo; Clayton
+said defensively. &ldquo;A man
+doesn&rsquo;t know what he&rsquo;s doing
+when he&rsquo;s drunk.&rdquo; He frowned
+in concentration. He knew
+he&rsquo;d have to think up some
+story.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I kind of remember we
+made a bet. I bet him I could
+get on the ship. Sure&mdash;I remember,
+now. That&rsquo;s what
+happened; I bet him I could
+get on the ship and we traded
+clothes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where is he now?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At my place, sleeping it
+off, I guess.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Without his oxy-mask?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I gave him my oxidation
+pills for the mask.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The First shook his head.
+&ldquo;That sounds like the kind of
+trick Parkinson would pull, all
+right. I&rsquo;ll have to write it up
+and turn you both in to the
+authorities when we hit
+Earth.&rdquo; He eyed Clayton.
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Cartwright. Sam Cartwright,&rdquo;
+Clayton said without
+batting an eye.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Volunteer or convicted
+colonist?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Volunteer.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The First looked at him for
+a long moment, disbelief in
+his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>It didn&rsquo;t matter. Volunteer
+or convict, there was no place
+Clayton could go. From the
+officer&rsquo;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: &ldquo;Well,
+we&rsquo;re one man short in the
+kitchen. You wanted to take
+Parkinson&rsquo;s place; brother,
+you&rsquo;ve got it&mdash;without pay.&rdquo;
+He paused for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You know, of course,&rdquo; he
+said judiciously, &ldquo;that you&rsquo;ll
+be shipped back to Mars immediately.
+And you&rsquo;ll have to
+work out your passage both
+ways&mdash;it will be deducted
+from your pay.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Clayton nodded. &ldquo;I know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what else
+will happen. If there&rsquo;s a conviction,
+you may lose your
+volunteer status on Mars. And
+there may be fines taken out
+of your pay, too.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s all, Cartwright.
+You can report to
+Kissman in the kitchen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The First pressed a button
+on his desk and spoke into the
+intercom. &ldquo;Who was on duty
+at the airlock when the crew
+came aboard last night? Send
+him up. I want to talk to him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then the quartermaster officer
+led Clayton out the door
+and took him to the kitchen.</p>
+
+<p>The ship&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t,
+they&rsquo;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&rsquo;t
+go back to that frozen mud-ball!
+He&rsquo;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&rsquo;t</i>
+go wrong. He didn&rsquo;t want
+to die, and he didn&rsquo;t want to
+go back to Mars.</p>
+
+<p>Nobody on the ship liked
+him; they couldn&rsquo;t appreciate
+his position. He hadn&rsquo;t done
+anything to them, but they
+just didn&rsquo;t like him. He didn&rsquo;t
+know why; he&rsquo;d <i>tried</i> to get
+along with them. Well, if they
+didn&rsquo;t like him, the hell with
+them.</p>
+
+<p>If things worked out the
+way he figured, they&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;or,
+rather, crashed&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;re not getting
+the snow storms up there like
+we&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS ***</div>
+<div style='text-align:left'>
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+Project Gutenberg's The Man Who Hated Mars, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
+
+
+Title: The Man Who Hated Mars
+
+Author: Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+Release Date: May 30, 2008 [EBook #25644]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+         _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--_
+
+
+                          THE MAN WHO
+                                  HATED MARS
+
+                          By RANDALL GARRETT
+
+
+[Illustration: The frightful carnage would go down in the bloody history
+of space.]
+
+
+"I want you to put me in prison!" the big, hairy man said in a trembling
+voice.
+
+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:
+
+                           LT. PHOEBE HARRIS
+                     TERRAN REHABILITATION SERVICE
+
+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.
+
+He said: "Well? Dammit, say something!"
+
+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.
+
+Clayton froze. _She's yellow!_ 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.
+
+She had thought he was going to jump her. _Little rat!_ he thought,
+_somebody ought to slap her down!_
+
+He watched her check through the heavy dossier in front of her. Finally,
+she looked up at him again.
+
+"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."
+
+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--
+
+Lieutenant Harris went on: "I'm afraid you can't back down now."
+
+"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!"
+
+"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.
+
+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--"
+
+"_Shut up!_" 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.
+
+"Just keep it in mind that I don't like it any better than you do--_and
+I didn't strong-arm anybody to deserve the assignment!_ Now get out of
+here!"
+
+She moved a hand threateningly toward the manual controls of the stun
+beam.
+
+Clayton retreated fast. The trackers ignored anyone walking away from
+the desk; they were set only to spot threatening movements toward it.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+There was a high, thin piping in the sky above him which quickly became
+a scream in the thin air.
+
+He turned for a moment to watch the ship land, squinting his eyes to see
+the number on the hull.
+
+Fifty-two. Space Transport Ship Fifty-two.
+
+Probably bringing another load of poor suckers to freeze to death on
+Mars.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+"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.
+
+"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.
+
+"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."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+So they made you live outside and like it. So you froze and you choked
+and you suffered.
+
+Clayton hated Mars. He hated the thin air and the cold. More than
+anything, he hated the cold.
+
+Ron Clayton wanted to go home.
+
+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.
+
+They were playing Heinlein's _Green Hills of Earth_.
+
+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.
+
+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. _God, how I hate Mars!_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton closed his eyes and finished the beer. He ordered another.
+
+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.
+
+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."
+
+Then he'd put Clayton on report anyway. Strictly a rat.
+
+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.
+
+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."
+
+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."
+
+That was the trouble with some guys. No sense of humor.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Somebody was playing _Green Hills_ again, damn them. Evidently all of
+his own selections had run out earlier than he'd thought they would.
+
+Hell! There was nothing to do here. He might as well go home.
+
+"Gimme another beer, Mac."
+
+He'd go home as soon as he finished this one.
+
+He stood there with his eyes closed, listening to the music and hating
+Mars.
+
+A voice next to him said: "I'll have a whiskey."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+Clayton was right. The fellow had an oxygen tube clamped firmly over his
+nose. He was wearing the uniform of the Space Transport Service.
+
+"Just get in on the ship?" Clayton asked conversationally.
+
+The man nodded and grinned. "Yeah. Four hours before we take off again."
+He poured down the whiskey. "Sure cold out."
+
+Clayton agreed. "It's always cold." He watched enviously as the
+spaceman ordered another whiskey.
+
+Clayton couldn't afford whiskey. He probably could have by this time, if
+the mines had made him a foreman, like they should have.
+
+Maybe he could talk the spaceman out of a couple of drinks.
+
+"My name's Clayton. Ron Clayton."
+
+The spaceman took the offered hand. "Mine's Parkinson, but everybody
+calls me Parks."
+
+"Sure, Parks. Uh--can I buy you a beer?"
+
+Parks shook his head. "No, thanks. I started on whiskey. Here, let me
+buy you one."
+
+"Well--thanks. Don't mind if I do."
+
+They drank them in silence, and Parks ordered two more.
+
+"Been here long?" Parks asked.
+
+"Fifteen years. Fifteen long, long years."
+
+"Did you--uh--I mean--" Parks looked suddenly confused.
+
+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.
+
+Parks glanced around quickly, moving only his eyes. "Yeah. I see," he
+said softly.
+
+"This your first trip?" asked Clayton.
+
+"First one to Mars. Been on the Luna run a long time."
+
+"Low pressure bother you much?"
+
+"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 _isn't_ here." He took a deep breath through his nose tube to
+emphasize his point.
+
+Clayton clamped his teeth together, making the muscles at the side of
+his jaw stand out.
+
+Parks didn't notice. "You guys have to take those pills, don't you?"
+
+"Yeah."
+
+"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--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+This guy did have a couple of new twists, but not enough to make the
+story worthwhile.
+
+"Boy," Clayton said when Parks had finished, "you were lucky to come out
+of that alive!"
+
+Parks nodded, well pleased with himself, and bought another round of
+drinks.
+
+"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--"
+
+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.
+
+"--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.
+
+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.
+
+Parks was a hell of a nice fellow.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The bartender said Clayton was getting loud, too, but it was just
+because he had to talk loud to make Parks hear him.
+
+Clayton helped Parks put his mask and parka on and they walked out into
+the cold night.
+
+Parks began to sing _Green Hills_. About halfway through, he stopped and
+turned to Clayton.
+
+"I'm from Indiana."
+
+Clayton had already spotted him as an American by his accent.
+
+"Indiana? That's nice. Real nice."
+
+"Yeah. You talk about green hills, we got green hills in Indiana. What
+time is it?"
+
+Clayton told him.
+
+"Jeez-krise! Ol' spaship takes off in an hour. Ought to have one more
+drink first."
+
+Clayton realized he didn't like Parks. But maybe he'd buy a bottle.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton said: "Let's go over to Sharkie's. Sharkie will sell us a
+bottle."
+
+"Okay," said Parks. "We'll get a bottle. That's what we need: a bottle."
+
+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.
+
+    "We're going over to the Shark's
+    To buy a jug of gin for Parks!
+    Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!"
+
+One thing about a few drinks; you didn't get so cold. You didn't feel it
+too much, anyway.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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?"
+
+"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.
+
+"You wait out here," Clayton said.
+
+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.
+
+When he came out with the bottle, Parks was sitting on a rock,
+shivering.
+
+"Jeez-krise!" he said. "It's cold out here. Let's get to someplace where
+it's warm."
+
+"Sure. I got the bottle. Want a drink?"
+
+Parks took the bottle, opened it, and took a good belt out of it.
+
+"Hooh!" he breathed. "Pretty smooth."
+
+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."
+
+They started back down the street toward the spacefield.
+
+"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!
+
+"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."
+
+That was when Clayton decided he really hated Parks.
+
+And when Parks said: "Why be dumb, friend? Whyn't you go home?" Clayton
+kicked him in the stomach, hard.
+
+"And that, that--" Clayton said as Parks doubled over.
+
+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.
+
+Then Clayton saw why. Parks' nose tube had come off when Clayton's foot
+struck his head.
+
+Parks was breathing heavily, but he wasn't getting any oxygen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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:
+
+                          PARKINSON, HERBERT J.
+                         Steward 2nd Class, STS
+
+Above it was a photo, and a set of fingerprints.
+
+Clayton grinned. They'd never know it wasn't Parks getting on the ship.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Clayton got up and went outside toward the ship.
+
+"Wake up! Hey, you! Wake up!"
+
+Somebody was slapping his cheeks. Clayton opened his eyes and looked at
+the blurred face over his own.
+
+From a distance, another voice said: "Who is it?"
+
+The blurred face said: "I don't know. He was asleep behind these cases.
+I think he's drunk."
+
+Clayton wasn't drunk--he was sick. His head felt like hell. Where the
+devil was he?
+
+"Get up, bud. Come on, get up!"
+
+Clayton pulled himself up by holding to the man's arm. The effort made
+him dizzy and nauseated.
+
+The other man said: "Take him down to sick bay, Casey. Get some thiamin
+into him."
+
+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.
+
+He remembered meeting Parks. And getting thrown out by the bartender.
+Then what?
+
+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.
+
+The medic in the sick bay fired two shots from a hypo-gun into both
+arms, but Clayton ignored the slight sting.
+
+"Where am I?"
+
+"Real original. Here, take these." He handed Clayton a couple of
+capsules, and gave him a glass of water to wash them down with.
+
+When the water hit his stomach, there was an immediate reaction.
+
+"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.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+"I was checking through the stores this morning when I found this man.
+He was asleep, dead drunk, behind the crates."
+
+"He was drunk, all right," supplied the medic. "I found this in his
+pocket." He flipped a booklet to the First Officer.
+
+The First was a young man, not older than twenty-eight with
+tough-looking gray eyes. He looked over the booklet.
+
+"Where did you get Parkinson's ID booklet? And his uniform?"
+
+Clayton looked down at his clothes in wonder. "I don't know."
+
+"You _don't know_? That's a hell of an answer."
+
+"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.
+
+"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."
+
+"Where is he now?"
+
+"At my place, sleeping it off, I guess."
+
+"Without his oxy-mask?"
+
+"Oh, I gave him my oxidation pills for the mask."
+
+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?"
+
+"Cartwright. Sam Cartwright," Clayton said without batting an eye.
+
+"Volunteer or convicted colonist?"
+
+"Volunteer."
+
+The First looked at him for a long moment, disbelief in his eyes.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+"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."
+
+Clayton nodded. "I know."
+
+"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.
+
+"Well, that's all, Cartwright. You can report to Kissman in the
+kitchen."
+
+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."
+
+Then the quartermaster officer led Clayton out the door and took him to
+the kitchen.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+And all the time, he was thinking.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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
+_couldn't_ go wrong. He didn't want to die, and he didn't want to go
+back to Mars.
+
+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 _tried_ to get along with them. Well, if they didn't like
+him, the hell with them.
+
+If things worked out the way he figured, they'd be damned sorry.
+
+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.
+
+And, while he worked in the kitchen, he spent a great deal of time
+sharpening a big carving knife.
+
+Once, during his off time, he managed to disable one of the ship's two
+lifeboats. He was saving the other for himself.
+
+The ship was eight hours out from Earth and still decelerating when
+Clayton pulled his getaway.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+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.
+
+The Engineer and the two jetmen were out cold from the chloral hydrate
+in the coffee from the kitchen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Then he began to run up the stairwell toward the good lifeboat.
+
+He was panting and out of breath when he arrived, but no one had stopped
+him. No one had even seen him.
+
+He clambered into the lifeboat, made everything ready, and waited.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Clayton studied them for a while, then set the alarm to waken him in
+seven hours and dozed off to sleep.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+It felt just like home.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+                                        Bureau of Criminal Investigation
+                                                   Regional Headquarters
+                                                       Cheyenne, Wyoming
+                                                         20 January 2102
+
+ To: Space Transport Service
+ Subject: Lifeship 2, STS-52
+ Attention Mr. P. D. Latimer
+
+Dear Paul,
+
+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.
+
+The detailed official report will follow, but briefly, this is what
+happened:
+
+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.
+
+He has been identified as Ronald Watkins Clayton, exiled to Mars fifteen
+years ago.
+
+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.
+
+As it was, he could only crawl about a hundred yards from the wrecked
+lifeship before he collapsed.
+
+Well, I hope this clears up everything.
+
+I hope you're not getting the snow storms up there like we've been
+getting them.
+
+                                                          John B. Remley
+                                                          Captain, CBI
+
+
+                                                                 THE END
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ 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.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Man Who Hated Mars, by Gordon Randall Garrett
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