THE DERELICT
BY WILLIAM J. MATTHEWS
The end of the trail ... he knew it, she knew
it, old Hanu knew it and so Jeff Thorne
stumbled off into the Martian desert—to die.
But death takes strange forms out there....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Geoffrey Thorne was "on the beach." Face down on it, in fact, head andshoulders deep in the brackish eddies of the slowly rising tide, thesluggish waters of the North Nergal Polar cap. And it was odds he woulddie there miserably in his drunken stupor, had not there come a suddeninterruption of the t'ang-ridden miasm in which he lay.
A sibilant rush of feet dashed across the worn Martian sand, splashedinto the shallows, and Thorne felt quick, vital hands snatch and rollhim face up, slapping a dull sensitivity into his addled wits. He shookhis head dazedly, realized his predicament, and feebly struggled torise. It was beyond his power.
With a snort of disgust, his rescuers caught him under the arms anddragged him unceremoniously backward. Once clear enough of the dullwaters rolling languidly upon the low, hot beach, he let go and Thornesat down heavily in the sand.
"I'd call that a waste of effort," a well-fed voice coldly observed.
"Paul, please!" replied a woman's softer voice. Thorne shook his headviciously, raised himself on one arm, and sought to focus his blurredvision on the group facing him.
There were a dozen or so, well-dressed, well-fed, bright with colorand metal in the sunshine. Tourists. He looked up at the young pettyofficer of International who had dragged him from the water. There wasa pained look of weary resignation on the clean-cut young face as heturned to his temporary charges.
"I must apologize, ladies and gentlemen. This bit of local color wasunscheduled. It happens occasionally on the inner planets. Conditionsgrow too rigorous and a man—uh—goes down."
Thorne laughed, a dreadful, choked hacking that set the flutteringtourists back a step or two in sheer fright.
"A man goes down, kid." He rubbed his eyes and leered at them. "Damnedfar down that you show him off like a Martian."
The officer of International Airways, Inc., winced and then added, tohis group, "He's right, you know. Privacy's about all that's left uphere on this station. Shall we go on? There are the caves I promised toshow you, farther along."
He moved up the beach, the tourists straggling after him, stilllooking back at the dejected figure of Thorne half-lying, half-sittingin the hot sand. Their voices came drifting back upon his throbbingconsciousness.
"But, Mr. Atlee," a woman's voice urged, "we can't just leave him therelike that. Mightn't he drown?"
"The tide doesn't come much higher, Miss Thurland. He'll be all right.Once out of that coma, he won't drop into it again for a day or two,unless he gets more t'ang."
"What is this t'ang, Mr. Atlee?" another woman asked. "A Martian drink?"
"Yes, it is. High explosive ... and one drink wrecks a man for life.They never get it out of their systems, and they don't much care.It's like the opium off Jupiter, only worse. They'd kill for it.Fortunately, they can't get it any too easily—but it's not fortunatefor poor devils like Thorne."
They were gone, then. The last had vanished in the misty haze spun bythe blazing sunshine on the northern rocks. Heading for the Vulhancaves farther along no doubt. Rock cryst