EXILES OF THE THREE RED MOONS
By CARL SELWYN
Slowly, horribly, men died in that outer-space
Devil's Island. Carter already could feel the
slow-gnawing, Emerald Death. What had he to lose,
even on a crazy-wild, 100-to-1 shot Pluto prison-break?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Faint and distant, the sun fell swiftly behind the close horizonand three warm moons of Pluto climbed from the jagged rocks. Theirpale, green light spread upon the rearing crags of dusty silica in ascintillating blanket of emerald, and gleamed richly upon the patchesof white lichen.
As Rusty Carter strode down the winding trail from his cave, he gaveno thought to the prismatic scene. Even his analytical eyes, veteranof ten years with the Tele-news, were not concerned. He had seen it indaylight, when the freezing winds swept across the glaring monotonyof crystal sand, when men fought and killed for sheer sport, and whenthe Bugs came. The cold horror of day paled the beauty of night. AndRusty Carter was weary of both, after these Plutonian months. His heartquickened as he remembered this was his last evening.
Rounding a bend, he approached the squat, transparent target buildinggleaming above the restless crowd of men. They stood about in smallgroups, talking noisily.
Rusty glanced at his watch. It was twenty revs before the monthly shipwas due. And this time it would not merely hover to drop drift-tubescontaining more doomed men and newsprints from a ruthless Y.M.P.A.This time it would land—take him back to Earth. His heart sang at thethought. Lord, but it would be good to have real soil underfoot again,even the impassive pavement of New York!
As he pushed his way through the motley mob, Rusty's mind flashed faracross space to his desk in the great New York Tele-news plant. Heremembered Skipper Russell, his city editor, coming over, the twinklein his sagacious eyes as he told him to go out and rob a bank. Thenthe eyes had changed to cool efficiency as he outlined his plan. Rustywas to enter the Planetary National, armed with a vib-ray gun. He wasto menace the employees, then be trapped by pre-informed police. Infeigned terror, he was to turn the gun upon the crowd, fire. Actors hadbeen hired for the part. The vib-ray loaded with a harmless vibration,they were to fall before him. He would be captured, and with the bestlawyers against him, sent to Pluto for life. Stories about this dreadpenal colony were dreadful, but mostly speculative. Forbidden entranceby the Interplanetary Control, Tele-news agencies had few facts. Afirst-hand story would be worth millions. It was Rusty's job to get it.
And here he was, the job done. The false arrest and its purpose wasknown only to Skipper and himself. Even the actors whose "bodies" wereimmediately claimed by their families, knew nothing of their work'ssignificance. After two months, the city editor would confess to thehoax, pay whatever fine was imposed, and Rusty would be released—witha priceless story.
The two months were over, and the story was priceless. Dealingintimately with the primitive simplicity of souls without hope andtheir degenerate abandon of all that civilization had bestowed, histale would weave a pattern of remorse that such conditions should existanywhere in the universe. Pluto and its four moons were billions ofmiles from home, anybody's home. Three of its satellites, of aboute