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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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