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diff --git a/25644-0.txt b/25644-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89bc5cc --- /dev/null +++ b/25644-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1167 @@ +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED MARS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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