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diff --git a/25644-h/25644-h.htm b/25644-h/25644-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4261f01 --- /dev/null +++ b/25644-h/25644-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1900 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Man Who Hated Mars, by Randall Garrett</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .poem {margin: 0 auto; width: 30em;} + .poem br {display: none; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + img {border: none; display: block;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + .theend {text-align: right; margin-top: 2em; clear: right;} + .lt {float: right;} + .cl {clear: right;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +p.caption {font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; } + + </style> + </head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Man Who Hated Mars, by Randall Garrett</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</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—get onto a ship that couldn’t be +boarded—smash through an impenetrable wall of steel. Perhaps he could do +all these things, but he discovered that Mars did evil things to men; that he +wasn’t even Clayton any more. He was only—</i> +</p></div> + +<h1>The Man Who Hated Mars</h1> + +<h2>By RANDALL GARRETT</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap"> +“I want</span> you to put me in prison!” the big, hairy man said in +a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p>He was addressing his request +to a thin woman sitting +behind a desk that seemed +much too big for her. The +plaque on the desk said:</p> + +<p class="center">LT. PHOEBE HARRIS<br /> +TERRAN REHABILITATION SERVICE</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Harris glanced +at the man before her for only +a moment before she returned +her eyes to the dossier on the +desk; but long enough to verify +the impression his voice +had given. Ron Clayton was a +big, ugly, cowardly, dangerous +man.</p> + +<p>He said: “Well? Dammit, +say something!”</p> + +<p>The lieutenant raised her +eyes again. “Just be patient +until I’ve read this.” Her voice +and eyes were expressionless, +but her hand moved beneath +the desk.</p> + +<div class="fig" 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’s yellow!</i> +he thought. She’s turned on +the trackers! He could see the +pale greenish glow of their +little eyes watching him all +around the room. If he made +any fast move, they would cut +him down with a stun beam +before he could get two feet.</p> + +<p>She had thought he was +going to jump her. <i>Little rat!</i> +he thought, <i>somebody ought +to slap her down!</i></p> + +<p>He watched her check +through the heavy dossier in +front of her. Finally, she looked +up at him again.</p> + +<p>“Clayton, your last conviction +was for strong-arm robbery. +You were given a choice +between prison on Earth and +freedom here on Mars. You +picked Mars.”</p> + +<p>He nodded slowly. He’d +been broke and hungry at the +time. A sneaky little rat +named Johnson had bilked +Clayton out of his fair share +of the Corey payroll job, and +Clayton had been forced to +get the money somehow. He +hadn’t mussed the guy up +much; besides, it was the +sucker’s own fault. If he hadn’t +tried to yell—</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Harris went on: +“I’m afraid you can’t back +down now.”</p> + +<p>“But it isn’t fair! The most +I’d have got on that frame-up +would’ve been ten years. I’ve +been here fifteen already!”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, Clayton. It can’t +be done. You’re here. Period. +Forget about trying to get +back. Earth doesn’t want +you.” Her voice sounded +choppy, as though she were +trying to keep it calm.</p> + +<p>Clayton broke into a whining +rage. “You can’t do that! +It isn’t fair! I never did anything +to you! I’ll go talk to the +Governor! He’ll listen to reason! +You’ll see! I’ll—”</p> + +<p>“<i>Shut up!</i>” the woman +snapped harshly. “I’m getting +sick of it! I personally think +you should have been locked +up—permanently. I think this +idea of forced colonization is +going to breed trouble for +Earth someday, but it is about +the only way you can get anybody +to colonize this frozen +hunk of mud.</p> + +<p>“Just keep it in mind that +I don’t like it any better than +you do—<i>and I didn’t strong-arm +anybody to deserve the +assignment!</i> Now get out of +here!”</p> + +<p>She moved a hand threateningly +toward the manual controls +of the stun beam.</p> + +<p>Clayton retreated fast. The +trackers ignored anyone walking +away from the desk; they +were set only to spot threatening +movements toward it.</p> + +<p>Outside the Rehabilitation +Service Building, Clayton +could feel the tears running +down the inside of his face +mask. He’d asked again and +again—God only knew how +many times—in the past fifteen +years. Always the same +answer. No.</p> + +<p>When he’d heard that this +new administrator was a +woman, he’d hoped she might +be easier to convince. She +wasn’t. If anything, she was +harder than the others.</p> + +<p>The heat-sucking frigidity +of the thin Martian air whispered +around him in a feeble +breeze. He shivered a little +and began walking toward the +recreation center.</p> + +<p>There was a high, thin +piping in the sky above him +which quickly became a +scream in the thin air.</p> + +<p>He turned for a moment to +watch the ship land, squinting +his eyes to see the number on +the hull.</p> + +<p>Fifty-two. Space Transport +Ship Fifty-two.</p> + +<p>Probably bringing another +load of poor suckers to freeze +to death on Mars.</p> + +<p>That was the thing he hated +about Mars—the cold. The +everlasting damned cold! And +the oxidation pills; take one +every three hours or smother +in the poor, thin air.</p> + +<p>The government could have +put up domes; it could have +put in building-to-building +tunnels, at least. It could have +done a hell of a lot of things +to make Mars a decent place +for human beings.</p> + +<p>But no—the government +had other ideas. A bunch of +bigshot scientific characters +had come up with the idea +nearly twenty-three years before. +Clayton could remember +the words on the sheet he had +been given when he was sentenced.</p> + +<p>“Mankind is inherently an +adaptable animal. If we are to +colonize the planets of the +Solar System, we must meet +the conditions on those planets +as best we can.</p> + +<p>“Financially, it is impracticable +to change an entire +planet from its original condition +to one which will support +human life as it exists on +Terra.</p> + +<p>“But man, since he is adaptable, +can change himself—modify +his structure slightly—so +that he can live on these +planets with only a minimum +of change in the environment.”</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>So they made you live outside +and like it. So you froze +and you choked and you suffered.</p> + +<p>Clayton hated Mars. He +hated the thin air and the +cold. More than anything, he +hated the cold.</p> + +<p>Ron Clayton wanted to go +home.</p> + +<p>The Recreation Building +was just ahead; at least it +would be warm inside. He +pushed in through the outer +and inner doors, and he heard +the burst of music from the +jukebox. His stomach tightened +up into a hard cramp.</p> + +<p>They were playing Heinlein’s +<i>Green Hills of Earth</i>.</p> + +<p>There was almost no other +sound in the room, although +it was full of people. There +were plenty of colonists who +claimed to like Mars, but even +they were silent when that +song was played.</p> + +<p>Clayton wanted to go over +and smash the machine—make +it stop reminding him. +He clenched his teeth and his +fists and his eyes and cursed +mentally. <i>God, how I hate +Mars!</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<p>When the hauntingly nostalgic +last chorus faded away, +he walked over to the machine +and fed it full of enough coins +to keep it going on something +else until he left.</p> + +<p>At the bar, he ordered a +beer and used it to wash down +another oxidation tablet. It +wasn’t good beer; it didn’t +even deserve the name. The +atmospheric pressure was so +low as to boil all the carbon +dioxide out of it, so the brewers +never put it back in after +fermentation.</p> + +<p>He was sorry for what he +had done—really and truly +sorry. If they’d only give him +one more chance, he’d make +good. Just one more chance. +He’d work things out.</p> + +<p>He’d promised himself that +both times they’d put him up +before, but things had been +different then. He hadn’t really +been given another chance, +what with parole boards and +all.</p> + +<p>Clayton closed his eyes and +finished the beer. He ordered +another.</p> + +<p>He’d worked in the mines +for fifteen years. It wasn’t +that he minded work really, +but the foreman had it in for +him. Always giving him a bad +time; always picking out the +lousy jobs for him.</p> + +<p>Like the time he’d crawled +into a side-boring in Tunnel +12 for a nap during lunch and +the foreman had caught him. +When he promised never to +do it again if the foreman +wouldn’t put it on report, the +guy said, “Yeah. Sure. Hate +to hurt a guy’s record.”</p> + +<p>Then he’d put Clayton on +report anyway. Strictly a rat.</p> + +<p>Not that Clayton ran any +chance of being fired; they +never fired anybody. But +they’d fined him a day’s pay. +A whole day’s pay.</p> + +<p>He tapped his glass on the +bar, and the barman came +over with another beer. Clayton +looked at it, then up at +the barman. “Put a head on +it.”</p> + +<p>The bartender looked at +him sourly. “I’ve got some +soapsuds here, Clayton, and +one of these days I’m gonna +put some in your beer if you +keep pulling that gag.”</p> + +<p>That was the trouble with +some guys. No sense of humor.</p> + +<p>Somebody came in the door +and then somebody else came +in behind him, so that both +inner and outer doors were +open for an instant. A blast +of icy breeze struck Clayton’s +back, and he shivered. He +started to say something, then +changed his mind; the doors +were already closed again, +and besides, one of the guys +was bigger than he was.</p> + +<p>The iciness didn’t seem to +go away immediately. It was +like the mine. Little old Mars +was cold clear down to her +core—or at least down as far +as they’d drilled. The walls +were frozen and seemed to +radiate a chill that pulled the +heat right out of your blood.</p> + +<p>Somebody was playing +<i>Green Hills</i> again, damn them. +Evidently all of his own selections +had run out earlier than +he’d thought they would.</p> + +<p>Hell! There was nothing to +do here. He might as well go +home.</p> + +<p>“Gimme another beer, +Mac.”</p> + +<p>He’d go home as soon as he +finished this one.</p> + +<p>He stood there with his eyes +closed, listening to the music +and hating Mars.</p> + +<p>A voice next to him said: +“I’ll have a whiskey.”</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The voice sounded as if the +man had a bad cold, and Clayton +turned slowly to look at +him. After all the sterilization +they went through before they +left Earth, nobody on Mars +ever had a cold, so there was +only one thing that would +make a man’s voice sound +like that.</p> + +<p>Clayton was right. The fellow +had an oxygen tube +clamped firmly over his nose. +He was wearing the uniform +of the Space Transport Service.</p> + +<p>“Just get in on the ship?” +Clayton asked conversationally.</p> + +<p>The man nodded and grinned. +“Yeah. Four hours before +we take off again.” He poured +down the whiskey. “Sure cold +out.”</p> + +<p>Clayton agreed. “It’s always +cold.” He watched enviously +as the spaceman ordered +another whiskey.</p> + +<p>Clayton couldn’t afford +whiskey. He probably could +have by this time, if the mines +had made him a foreman, like +they should have.</p> + +<p>Maybe he could talk the +spaceman out of a couple of +drinks.</p> + +<p>“My name’s Clayton. Ron +Clayton.”</p> + +<p>The spaceman took the offered +hand. “Mine’s Parkinson, +but everybody calls me +Parks.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, Parks. Uh—can I +buy you a beer?”</p> + +<p>Parks shook his head. “No, +thanks. I started on whiskey. +Here, let me buy you one.”</p> + +<p>“Well—thanks. Don’t mind +if I do.”</p> + +<p>They drank them in silence, +and Parks ordered two more.</p> + +<p>“Been here long?” Parks +asked.</p> + +<p>“Fifteen years. Fifteen +long, long years.”</p> + +<p>“Did you—uh—I mean—” +Parks looked suddenly confused.</p> + +<p>Clayton glanced quickly to +make sure the bartender was +out of earshot. Then he grinned. +“You mean am I a convict? +Nah. I came here because +I wanted to. But—” He +lowered his voice. “—we don’t +talk about it around here. You +know.” He gestured with one +hand—a gesture that took in +everyone else in the room.</p> + +<p>Parks glanced around +quickly, moving only his eyes. +“Yeah. I see,” he said softly.</p> + +<p>“This your first trip?” asked +Clayton.</p> + +<p>“First one to Mars. Been on +the Luna run a long time.”</p> + +<p>“Low pressure bother you +much?”</p> + +<p>“Not much. We only keep it +at six pounds in the ships. +Half helium and half oxygen. +Only thing that bothers me is +the oxy here. Or rather, the +oxy that <i>isn’t</i> here.” He took +a deep breath through his +nose tube to emphasize his +point.</p> + +<p>Clayton clamped his teeth +together, making the muscles +at the side of his jaw stand +out.</p> + +<p>Parks didn’t notice. “You +guys have to take those pills, +don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yeah.”</p> + +<p>“I had to take them once. +Got stranded on Luna. The cat +I was in broke down eighty +some miles from Aristarchus +Base and I had to walk back—with +my oxy low. Well, I +figured—”</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Clayton listened to Parks’ +story with a great show of attention, +but he had heard it +before. This “lost on the +moon” stuff and its variations +had been going the rounds for +forty years. Every once in a +while, it actually did happen +to someone; just often enough +to keep the story going.</p> + +<p>This guy did have a couple +of new twists, but not enough +to make the story worthwhile.</p> + +<p>“Boy,” Clayton said when +Parks had finished, “you were +lucky to come out of that +alive!”</p> + +<p>Parks nodded, well pleased +with himself, and bought another +round of drinks.</p> + +<p>“Something like that happened +to me a couple of years +ago,” Clayton began. “I’m +supervisor on the third shift +in the mines at Xanthe, but +at the time, I was only a foreman. +One day, a couple of +guys went to a branch tunnel +to—”</p> + +<p>It was a very good story. +Clayton had made it up himself, +so he knew that Parks +had never heard it before. It +was gory in just the right +places, with a nice effect at +the end.</p> + +<p>“—so I had to hold up the +rocks with my back while the +rescue crew pulled the others +out of the tunnel by crawling +between my legs. Finally, they +got some steel beams down +there to take the load off, and +I could let go. I was in the +hospital for a week,” he finished.</p> + +<p>Parks was nodding vaguely. +Clayton looked up at the clock +above the bar and realized +that they had been talking for +better than an hour. Parks +was buying another round.</p> + +<p>Parks was a hell of a nice +fellow.</p> + +<p>There was, Clayton found, +only one trouble with Parks. +He got to talking so loud that +the bartender refused to serve +either one of them any more.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The bartender said Clayton +was getting loud, too, but it +was just because he had to +talk loud to make Parks hear +him.</p> + +<p>Clayton helped Parks put +his mask and parka on and +they walked out into the cold +night.</p> + +<p>Parks began to sing <i>Green +Hills</i>. About halfway through, +he stopped and turned to +Clayton.</p> + +<p>“I’m from Indiana.”</p> + +<p>Clayton had already spotted +him as an American by his +accent.</p> + +<p>“Indiana? That’s nice. Real +nice.”</p> + +<p>“Yeah. You talk about +green hills, we got green hills +in Indiana. What time is it?”</p> + +<p>Clayton told him.</p> + +<p>“Jeez-krise! Ol’ spaship +takes off in an hour. Ought +to have one more drink first.”</p> + +<p>Clayton realized he didn’t +like Parks. But maybe he’d +buy a bottle.</p> + +<p>Sharkie Johnson worked in +Fuels Section, and he made a +nice little sideline of stealing +alcohol, cutting it, and selling +it. He thought it was real +funny to call it Martian Gin.</p> + +<p>Clayton said: “Let’s go over +to Sharkie’s. Sharkie will sell +us a bottle.”</p> + +<p>“Okay,” said Parks. “We’ll +get a bottle. That’s what we +need: a bottle.”</p> + +<p>It was quite a walk to the +Shark’s place. It was so cold +that even Parks was beginning +to sober up a little. He +was laughing like hell when +Clayton started to sing.</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 15em;"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“We’re going over to the Shark’s<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To buy a jug of gin for Parks!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!”<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>One thing about a few +drinks; you didn’t get so cold. +You didn’t feel it too much, +anyway.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The Shark still had his light +on when they arrived. Clayton +whispered to Parks: “I’ll go +in. He knows me. He wouldn’t +sell it if you were around. You +got eight credits?”</p> + +<p>“Sure I got eight credits. +Just a minute, and I’ll give +you eight credits.” He fished +around for a minute inside his +parka, and pulled out his +notecase. His gloved fingers +were a little clumsy, but he +managed to get out a five and +three ones and hand them to +Clayton.</p> + +<p>“You wait out here,” Clayton +said.</p> + +<p>He went in through the +outer door and knocked on the +inner one. He should have +asked for ten credits. Sharkie +only charged five, and that +would leave him three for +himself. But he could have got +ten—maybe more.</p> + +<p>When he came out with the +bottle, Parks was sitting on +a rock, shivering.</p> + +<p>“Jeez-krise!” he said. “It’s +cold out here. Let’s get to +someplace where it’s warm.”</p> + +<p>“Sure. I got the bottle. +Want a drink?”</p> + +<p>Parks took the bottle, opened +it, and took a good belt out +of it.</p> + +<p>“Hooh!” he breathed. +“Pretty smooth.”</p> + +<p>As Clayton drank, Parks +said: “Hey! I better get back +to the field! I know! We can +go to the men’s room and +finish the bottle before the +ship takes off! Isn’t that a +good idea? It’s warm there.”</p> + +<p>They started back down the +street toward the spacefield.</p> + +<p>“Yep, I’m from Indiana. +Southern part, down around +Bloomington,” Parks said. +“Gimme the jug. Not Bloomington, +Illinois—Bloomington, +Indiana. We really got +green hills down there.” He +drank, and handed the bottle +back to Clayton. “Pers-nally, +I don’t see why anybody’d +stay on Mars. Here y’are, +practic’ly on the equator in +the middle of the summer, and +it’s colder than hell. Brrr!</p> + +<p>“Now if you was smart, +you’d go home, where it’s +warm. Mars wasn’t built for +people to live on, anyhow. I +don’t see how you stand it.”</p> + +<p>That was when Clayton +decided he really hated Parks.</p> + +<p>And when Parks said: +“Why be dumb, friend? Whyn’t +you go home?” Clayton +kicked him in the stomach, +hard.</p> + +<p>“And that, that—” Clayton +said as Parks doubled over.</p> + +<p>He said it again as he kicked +him in the head. And in +the ribs. Parks was gasping +as he writhed on the ground, +but he soon lay still.</p> + +<p>Then Clayton saw why. +Parks’ nose tube had come off +when Clayton’s foot struck +his head.</p> + +<p>Parks was breathing heavily, +but he wasn’t getting any +oxygen.</p> + +<p>That was when the Big +Idea hit Ron Clayton. With a +nosepiece on like that, you +couldn’t tell who a man was. +He took another drink from +the jug and then began to +take Parks’ clothes off.</p> + +<p>The uniform fit Clayton +fine, and so did the nose mask. +He dumped his own clothing +on top of Parks’ nearly nude +body, adjusted the little oxygen +tank so that the gas would +flow properly through the +mask, took the first deep +breath of good air he’d had +in fifteen years, and walked +toward the spacefield.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He went into the men’s +room at the Port Building, +took a drink, and felt in the +pockets of the uniform for +Parks’ identification. He +found it and opened the booklet. +It read:</p> + +<p class="center">PARKINSON, HERBERT J.<br /> +Steward 2nd Class, STS</p> + +<p>Above it was a photo, and a +set of fingerprints.</p> + +<p>Clayton grinned. They’d +never know it wasn’t Parks +getting on the ship.</p> + +<p>Parks was a steward, too. +A cook’s helper. That was +good. If he’d been a jetman or +something like that, the crew +might wonder why he wasn’t +on duty at takeoff. But a steward +was different.</p> + +<p>Clayton sat for several minutes, +looking through the +booklet and drinking from the +bottle. He emptied it just before +the warning sirens keened +through the thin air.</p> + +<p>Clayton got up and went +outside toward the ship.</p> + +<p>“Wake up! Hey, you! Wake +up!”</p> + +<p>Somebody was slapping his +cheeks. Clayton opened his +eyes and looked at the blurred +face over his own.</p> + +<p>From a distance, another +voice said: “Who is it?”</p> + +<p>The blurred face said: “I +don’t know. He was asleep +behind these cases. I think +he’s drunk.”</p> + +<p>Clayton wasn’t drunk—he +was sick. His head felt like +hell. Where the devil was he?</p> + +<p>“Get up, bud. Come on, get +up!”</p> + +<p>Clayton pulled himself up +by holding to the man’s arm. +The effort made him dizzy +and nauseated.</p> + +<p>The other man said: “Take +him down to sick bay, Casey. +Get some thiamin into him.”</p> + +<p>Clayton didn’t struggle as +they led him down to the sick +bay. He was trying to clear +his head. Where was he? He +must have been pretty drunk +last night.</p> + +<p>He remembered meeting +Parks. And getting thrown +out by the bartender. Then +what?</p> + +<p>Oh, yeah. He’d gone to the +Shark’s for a bottle. From +there on, it was mostly gone. +He remembered a fight or +something, but that was all +that registered.</p> + +<p>The medic in the sick bay +fired two shots from a hypo-gun +into both arms, but Clayton +ignored the slight sting.</p> + +<p>“Where am I?”</p> + +<p>“Real original. Here, take +these.” He handed Clayton a +couple of capsules, and gave +him a glass of water to wash +them down with.</p> + +<p>When the water hit his +stomach, there was an immediate +reaction.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Christ!” the medic +said. “Get a mop, somebody. +Here, bud; heave into this.” +He put a basin on the table +in front of Clayton.</p> + +<p>It took them the better part +of an hour to get Clayton +awake enough to realize what +was going on and where he +was. Even then, he was +plenty groggy.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>It was the First Officer of +the STS-52 who finally got the +story straight. As soon as +Clayton was in condition, the +medic and the quartermaster +officer who had found him +took him up to the First Officer’s +compartment.</p> + +<p>“I was checking through +the stores this morning when +I found this man. He was +asleep, dead drunk, behind the +crates.”</p> + +<p>“He was drunk, all right,” +supplied the medic. “I found +this in his pocket.” He flipped +a booklet to the First Officer.</p> + +<p>The First was a young man, +not older than twenty-eight +with tough-looking gray eyes. +He looked over the booklet.</p> + +<p>“Where did you get Parkinson’s +ID booklet? And his uniform?”</p> + +<p>Clayton looked down at his +clothes in wonder. “I don’t +know.”</p> + +<p>“You <i>don’t know</i>? That’s a +hell of an answer.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I was drunk,” Clayton +said defensively. “A man +doesn’t know what he’s doing +when he’s drunk.” He frowned +in concentration. He knew +he’d have to think up some +story.</p> + +<p>“I kind of remember we +made a bet. I bet him I could +get on the ship. Sure—I remember, +now. That’s what +happened; I bet him I could +get on the ship and we traded +clothes.”</p> + +<p>“Where is he now?”</p> + +<p>“At my place, sleeping it +off, I guess.”</p> + +<p>“Without his oxy-mask?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I gave him my oxidation +pills for the mask.”</p> + +<p>The First shook his head. +“That sounds like the kind of +trick Parkinson would pull, all +right. I’ll have to write it up +and turn you both in to the +authorities when we hit +Earth.” He eyed Clayton. +“What’s your name?”</p> + +<p>“Cartwright. Sam Cartwright,” +Clayton said without +batting an eye.</p> + +<p>“Volunteer or convicted +colonist?”</p> + +<p>“Volunteer.”</p> + +<p>The First looked at him for +a long moment, disbelief in +his eyes.</p> + +<p>It didn’t matter. Volunteer +or convict, there was no place +Clayton could go. From the +officer’s viewpoint, he was as +safely imprisoned in the +spaceship as he would be on +Mars or a prison on Earth.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The First wrote in the log +book, and then said: “Well, +we’re one man short in the +kitchen. You wanted to take +Parkinson’s place; brother, +you’ve got it—without pay.” +He paused for a moment.</p> + +<p>“You know, of course,” he +said judiciously, “that you’ll +be shipped back to Mars immediately. +And you’ll have to +work out your passage both +ways—it will be deducted +from your pay.”</p> + +<p>Clayton nodded. “I know.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what else +will happen. If there’s a conviction, +you may lose your +volunteer status on Mars. And +there may be fines taken out +of your pay, too.</p> + +<p>“Well, that’s all, Cartwright. +You can report to +Kissman in the kitchen.”</p> + +<p>The First pressed a button +on his desk and spoke into the +intercom. “Who was on duty +at the airlock when the crew +came aboard last night? Send +him up. I want to talk to him.”</p> + +<p>Then the quartermaster officer +led Clayton out the door +and took him to the kitchen.</p> + +<p>The ship’s driver tubes +were pushing it along at a +steady five hundred centimeters +per second squared acceleration, +pushing her steadily +closer to Earth with a little +more than half a gravity of +drive.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>There wasn’t much for +Clayton to do, really. He helped +to select the foods that +went into the automatics, and +he cleaned them out after each +meal was cooked. Once every +day, he had to partially dismantle +them for a really thorough +going-over.</p> + +<p>And all the time, he was +thinking.</p> + +<p>Parkinson must be dead; +he knew that. That meant the +Chamber. And even if he wasn’t, +they’d send Clayton back +to Mars. Luckily, there was no +way for either planet to communicate +with the ship; it was +hard enough to keep a beam +trained on a planet without +trying to hit such a comparatively +small thing as a ship.</p> + +<p>But they would know about +it on Earth by now. They +would pick him up the instant +the ship landed. And the best +he could hope for was a return +to Mars.</p> + +<p>No, by God! He wouldn’t +go back to that frozen mud-ball! +He’d stay on Earth, +where it was warm and comfortable +and a man could live +where he was meant to live. +Where there was plenty of +air to breathe and plenty of +water to drink. Where the +beer tasted like beer and not +like slop. Earth. Good green +hills, the like of which exists +nowhere else.</p> + +<p>Slowly, over the days, he +evolved a plan. He watched +and waited and checked each +little detail to make sure nothing +would go wrong. It <i>couldn’t</i> +go wrong. He didn’t want +to die, and he didn’t want to +go back to Mars.</p> + +<p>Nobody on the ship liked +him; they couldn’t appreciate +his position. He hadn’t done +anything to them, but they +just didn’t like him. He didn’t +know why; he’d <i>tried</i> to get +along with them. Well, if they +didn’t like him, the hell with +them.</p> + +<p>If things worked out the +way he figured, they’d be +damned sorry.</p> + +<p>He was very clever about +the whole plan. When turn-over +came, he pretended to +get violently spacesick. That +gave him an opportunity to +steal a bottle of chloral hydrate +from the medic’s locker.</p> + +<p>And, while he worked in the +kitchen, he spent a great deal +of time sharpening a big carving +knife.</p> + +<p>Once, during his off time, +he managed to disable one of +the ship’s two lifeboats. He +was saving the other for himself.</p> + +<p>The ship was eight hours +out from Earth and still decelerating +when Clayton pulled +his getaway.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>It was surprisingly easy. +He was supposed to be asleep +when he sneaked down to the +drive compartment with the +knife. He pushed open the +door, looked in, and grinned +like an ape.</p> + +<p>The Engineer and the two +jetmen were out cold from the +chloral hydrate in the coffee +from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>Moving rapidly, he went to +the spares locker and began +methodically to smash every +replacement part for the +drivers. Then he took three +of the signal bombs from the +emergency kit, set them for +five minutes, and placed them +around the driver circuits.</p> + +<p>He looked at the three sleeping +men. What if they woke +up before the bombs went off? +He didn’t want to kill them +though. He wanted them to +know what had happened and +who had done it.</p> + +<p>He grinned. There was a +way. He simply had to drag +them outside and jam the door +lock. He took the key from the +Engineer, inserted it, turned +it, and snapped off the head, +leaving the body of the key +still in the lock. Nobody would +unjam it in the next four minutes.</p> + +<p>Then he began to run up +the stairwell toward the good +lifeboat.</p> + +<p>He was panting and out of +breath when he arrived, but +no one had stopped him. No +one had even seen him.</p> + +<p>He clambered into the lifeboat, +made everything ready, +and waited.</p> + +<p>The signal bombs were not +heavy charges; their main +purposes was to make a flare +bright enough to be seen for +thousands of miles in space. +Fluorine and magnesium +made plenty of light—and +heat.</p> + +<p>Quite suddenly, there was +no gravity. He had felt nothing, +but he knew that the +bombs had exploded. He +punched the LAUNCH switch +on the control board of the +lifeboat, and the little ship +leaped out from the side of the +greater one.</p> + +<p>Then he turned on the +drive, set it at half a gee, and +watched the STS-52 drop behind +him. It was no longer +decelerating, so it would miss +Earth and drift on into space. +On the other hand, the lifeship +would come down very +neatly within a few hundred +miles of the spaceport in +Utah, the destination of the +STS-52.</p> + +<p>Landing the lifeship would +be the only difficult part of +the maneuver, but they were +designed to be handled by beginners. +Full instructions +were printed on the simplified +control board.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Clayton studied them for +a while, then set the alarm to +waken him in seven hours and +dozed off to sleep.</p> + +<p>He dreamed of Indiana. It +was full of nice, green hills +and leafy woods, and Parkinson +was inviting him over to +his mother’s house for chicken +and whiskey. And all for free.</p> + +<p>Beneath the dream was the +calm assurance that they +would never catch him and +send him back. When the +STS-52 failed to show up, +they would think he had been +lost with it. They would never +look for him.</p> + +<p>When the alarm rang, +Earth was a mottled globe +looming hugely beneath the +ship. Clayton watched the +dials on the board, and began +to follow the instructions on +the landing sheet.</p> + +<p>He wasn’t too good at it. +The accelerometer climbed +higher and higher, and he felt +as though he could hardly +move his hands to the proper +switches.</p> + +<p>He was less than fifteen +feet off the ground when his +hand slipped. The ship, out of +control, shifted, spun, and +toppled over on its side, +smashing a great hole in the +cabin.</p> + +<p>Clayton shook his head and +tried to stand up in the wreckage. +He got to his hands and +knees, dizzy but unhurt, and +took a deep breath of the fresh +air that was blowing in +through the hole in the cabin.</p> + +<p>It felt just like home.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="lt"> +<p>Bureau of Criminal Investigation<br /> +Regional Headquarters<br /> +Cheyenne, Wyoming<br /> +20 January 2102</p></div> + +<p class="cl">To: Space Transport Service<br /> +Subject: Lifeship 2, STS-52<br /> +Attention Mr. P. D. Latimer</p> + +<p>Dear Paul,</p> + +<p>I have on hand the copies +of your reports on the rescue +of the men on the disabled +STS-52. It is fortunate that +the Lunar radar stations could +compute their orbit.</p> + +<p>The detailed official report +will follow, but briefly, this is +what happened:</p> + +<p>The lifeship landed—or, +rather, crashed—several miles +west of Cheyenne, as you +know, but it was impossible +to find the man who was piloting +it until yesterday because +of the weather.</p> + +<p>He has been identified as +Ronald Watkins Clayton, exiled +to Mars fifteen years ago.</p> + +<p>Evidently, he didn’t realize +that fifteen years of Martian +gravity had so weakened his +muscles that he could hardly +walk under the pull of a full +Earth gee.</p> + +<p>As it was, he could only +crawl about a hundred yards +from the wrecked lifeship before +he collapsed.</p> + +<p>Well, I hope this clears up +everything.</p> + +<p>I hope you’re not getting +the snow storms up there like +we’ve been getting them.</p> + +<div class="lt"><p>John B. Remley<br /> +Captain, CBI</p></div> + +<p class="theend"><b>THE END</b></p> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b><br /> +This etext was produced from <i>Amazing Stories</i> September 1956. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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