(author of "Earth Needs A Killer")
Illustration by Luros
Barstac found it hard to believe that this girl
had helped him escape—until he learned her reason.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Future combined with Science Fiction Stories November 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Barstac walked the mile across the red Martian plain. He felt butlittle emotion as he reached the resort building, and the sportsrockets waiting on the other side. He had to get one of those rocketsand get to Deimos—or die trying. One would be about as good as theother.
Then a slight tension grew in his stomach and sweat began to run downunder his helmet and pressure suit, down his sharp nose and the burnedface, as he started directly for the sports rockets.
He saw no one at all at first, then the gray-and-black-uniformed copnot ten feet away. The cop's helmet tilted and curious eyes studiedBarstac. Barstac didn't wait for any further reaction; his face pulledinto a tight scarred grin as he fired. The kinetic energy releaseburned away the side of the cop's head. A scream floated past from someonlooker, intensified by the communicator in Barstac's helmet.
Barstac ran. He was almost to one of the rockets and exhilarationfilled him. He sensed an alien thing, so alien—freedom. Maybe freedomjust for a while. Then he heard shouts and saw men running in likespokes into a wheel hub. He threw himself flat behind a loading trucksomeone had abandoned enroute to a supply rocket.
Superson guns. They wouldn't kill him ... against the law to killcriminals in the New System. More civilized to turn men into zombiesfor the rest of their lives in a mine three miles underground; they hadto take him alive. A superson gun put a man out of action fast, but itdidn't kill him. Sound waves tuned right could crack a man's helmetopen; in Martian atmosphere that meant unconsciousness in a few seconds.
If they got a line on him he wouldn't have a chance to use his heatgun. He didn't intend to be taken. He'd get a few of them, and thenhave enough heat left to turn on himself.
Barstac shivered as part of the metal truck spanged and cracked likeglass. They'd got a line on him all right, fast. He fired and three menturned into smoke and red steam. The others disappeared behind rockets,sleds, and out-buildings; they could take their time.
A face appeared to his right. A man trying to edge away, but then hestopped. A tourist in a dude suit, all spangled and glittery, styled tothe minute for Martian hunting. A face, young and pinched and shabbywith fear. His arms dangled limply. His lips behind the helmet weretight with terror.
"Wait—" his voice sounded through the communicator. "Wait—pleasedon't shoot! I'm unarmed. I won't—"
Barstac grinned. A gag. The guy took a step back and Barstac fired. Alight charge right through the belly. The man folded to one side, hismouth stretching, closing, opening. He grasped his middle and blood ranthrough his fingers. He was on his knees, raising a red hand.
"Wait—don't—"
Barstac's next charge was heavier and it took off the man's head andhelmet in a burst of flame.
Barstac was on his feet, long legs straining desperately, running.The sleek blue sports rocket slid across his path on its grav-plates.Far beyond it rose the high cubed buildings of the City of Sanskranlooking very near although it was at least fifty miles away.
A woman's face stared out at him through the rocket's translucentnose, a beautiful face inside a platinum