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THIEF OF MARS

By HENRY HASSE

Fate dealt Ron Jordan grim alternatives ... death by
decree of the Space Patrol, or murder at the hands
of this ruthless Martian pirate.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Ron Jordan presented a disgusting sight of an Earthman in the laststages of dissipation, as he slouched along the single dark street ofHalo City, the sardonically named pirate base on Ceres, Ron's clothingwas dirty and worn, his shoulders hunched carelessly and his armsdangled by his side. A week's growth of beard was on his face, and hishair was ragged and unkempt. If he had straightened from his slouch hewould have been an inch over six feet, with a lithe bulk that beliedthe height; and despite his unsavory appearance at the present moment,his gray eyes in the dark face were startlingly clear.

The outward appearance was all a disguise, for Jordan had a missionhere.

From the crude stone buildings on either side of the street came soundsof drunken laughter, the click of gambling wheels, and occasionalcurses as some player lost. And once Jordan saw the thin, blue flashof an electric pistol. He shrugged, knowing that life was cheap amongthese cut-throat pirates of many planets; he'd seen more than a scoreof men die in the single month he'd been here.

As he neared the end of the street, one of the doors near him openedand two men staggered out. One was a bulking Martian with dark,leathery face and heavy-lidded eyes. The other was an Earthman. TheMartian, a little drunk, stumbled into Jordan and cursed. Jordanmumbled an apology and tried to move unobtrusively out of the way. Atthis, the Martian's lips curved. He turned to his champion and saidcontemptuously:

"Listen to him. He apologizes. The scum!" With that word, he struckJordan hard across the face with the back of his hand.

Jordan took the blow, falling to the street and cringing. Hot angerflooded his brain at the insult, and his muscles quivered. However, herestrained himself, for he had long ago decided that his mission herecould only be accomplished passively. He peered up through eyes thatwere dull now, and saw the Martian's hand slide to the pistol in hisbelt. Jordan tensed, ready to launch himself up.

But the Martian's companion stopped him when his hand was on thepistol. "Don't waste a charge on him. Besides he's useful to us aroundhere—runs errands, cleans out the ships, etc. I think he's a littletouched." He tapped his head significantly, looking pityingly down atJordan.

Jordan peered up and allowed his lips to part in an idiotic grin,revealing teeth and gums that were purplish as though from chewing themind-destroying Eishn stems.

"You're right," the Martian said cruelly, "he's an Eishn hound.People who chew that stuff ought to live. Killing them'd be toomerciful." He kicked Jordan in the ribs, and Jordan took that blow,too, clenching his teeth tight together. It would not do to make astand yet.

He watched the two men move away, and then rose to his feet. It hadbeen the smartest and safest thing he had done, never to have a pistolon him. No one was foolish enough to come to this pirate base unarmed,therefore they all looked upon him as "touched" and harmless. And hecouldn't afford to get into any brawls—yet.


Jordan reached the great hollow space at the end of the street. Thisserved as a spaceport, with ships

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