Death Walks on Mars

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1958 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

There was death above. The Martian Sand Vulture swooped and hissed and twitched its barbed, poisonous tail in the thin air.

There was death below. The man lay cradled in the pebbly sand. Red sand that matched the color of his hair and the color of the blood oozing slowly from the hole in his forehead and trickling greasily along the inside of his punctured head-bubble. The air whistled thinly through the corresponding hole in the bubble as the oxygen converter tried vainly to maintain the proper breathing mixture.

There was death in the muzzle of the gun dangling nonchalantly from the tall man's gloved hand. It grinned from his face, etched in the sardonic twist that the purple scar gave to his right cheek. It danced in the emotionless distances of his eyes.

There was death in every beat of Leeda Carson's heart. With the adaptability of a pioneer she accepted the fact of death; even that of her husband's. The last two long Martian years had tested Terry's and her love; refined it with hardships and discouragement. The menacing gun was an easy way to rejoin him. But it was too easy; too soft a response to unwarranted killing. With unrelenting determination, she kindled and fanned to life a fierce resolve that the three men before her would pay, as slowly and as painfully as possible, for what they had done.

Through lips necessarily stiff with the effort of controlled emotion, she asked, "Why did you kill him?"

"Didn't have anything against him, Ma'am. Had to do it. Showed we meant business. Easier to handle one than two of you anyway." The eyes of the tubby man who answered her kept flickering anxiously upward toward the Sand Vulture. "That thing as dangerous as they say?"

Leeda turned to the third and youngest man. His glance was fixed hypnotically on the death on the ground. His skin was pale and his forehead beaded with sweat. She repeated, "What did you do it for?"

"Got into trouble at Canalport. Heard a rumor that you and your husband had struck a pocket of Martian Sunbursts. Fixed up a deal with a ship's cargo master to smuggle us back to Earth if we turned your stuff over to him. He jetted us out here. Left a while ago." The fat man itched frantically as he answered her. They all itched, Leeda noticed. It took a long time on Mars before anyone became used to the dust that penetrated even the Protecto-suits. It produced an agony that demanded attention; followed by festering sores.

"You talk too much, Fatso," the tall one said angrily.

"What's the difference, Rick?" Fatso said philosophically. "Won't do her any good."

Rick turned to Leeda. "At least you know the score. Do you want to tell us where the stuff is, or are you going to make it tough on yourself?"

Eyes like a Razor-back Sand Lizard, Leeda thought. "Out by our diggings," she answered readily. His eyes moved to the plastic bubble-house that she and Terry had called home when they weren't digging. "Search the place if you don't believe me," she suggested. "We never brought any of them back here with us. We cached them in the cave until we were ready to go home."

"Then you did strike it?" the young man interrupted eagerly.

She nodded.

Rick turned to the young man. "Search the house, Jocco. She may be lying."

The Sand Vulture wheeled and made a few low exploratory swoops toward them as they waited for Jocco. Leeda automatically checked her clothing to be sure she was completely covered. If that barbed tail touched the skin, death came--slow, agonizing, sure.

Jocco came back. "Emptier than interstellar space."

Holstering his gun, Rick started off saying, "Let's go. And no funny stuff."

Leeda smiled ironically and remained where she was. "It's not that easy. The cave is four walking days away."

Startled, Fatso groaned. "Where's your sand-mobile?"

"Broken down at the diggings. We came back to get parts."

Fatso and Jocco cussed loudly. Rick quieted them. "Get the parts," he told Leeda.

"You bring any water?" she asked.

"You haven't any?" Fatso's voice rose shrilly.

Leeda reached to her waist and the small attached flask. "Just this. And Terry has--had--one just like it. Enough for a couple old-timers like us. Not near enough for everyone now. Particularly with you being new to Mars."

Jocco snatched the flask from Terry's waist.

"I'll take that, Jocco," Rick commanded. "And yours too," he gestured to Leeda.

She handed it over obediently.

"But, Rick," Fatso began.

"No arguments. Share and share alike. I'll dole it out. Now get the parts," he told Leeda. "You go with her, Fatso."

As soon as they were back, the men began to move off. For the first time Leeda lost control of herself. "For God's sake, aren't you going to at least bury him?"

Rick's face twisted with its wry grin as he walked back to her. "Give the Sand Vulture a break. He's got to eat."

"But ..." she began to protest.

Swiftly he was beside her, doing something to her fingers. The pain surged up her arm; brought her stomach up into her throat gaggingly.

Then he released her. Gave her a shove. "When I say move, that's what I mean. Get going."