Exiles of the Three Red Moons

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?
Faint and distant, the sun fell swiftly behind the close horizon and three warm moons of Pluto climbed from the jagged rocks. Their pale, green light spread upon the rearing crags of dusty silica in a scintillating blanket of emerald, and gleamed richly upon the patches of white lichen.
As Rusty Carter strode down the winding trail from his cave, he gave no thought to the prismatic scene. Even his analytical eyes, veteran of ten years with the Tele-news, were not concerned. He had seen it in daylight, when the freezing winds swept across the glaring monotony of crystal sand, when men fought and killed for sheer sport, and when the Bugs came. The cold horror of day paled the beauty of night. And Rusty Carter was weary of both, after these Plutonian months. His heart quickened as he remembered this was his last evening.
Rounding a bend, he approached the squat, transparent target building gleaming above the restless crowd of men. They stood about in small groups, talking noisily.
Rusty glanced at his watch. It was twenty revs before the monthly ship was due. And this time it would not merely hover to drop drift-tubes containing 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 the thought. 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 far across space to his desk in the great New York Tele-news plant. He remembered Skipper Russell, his city editor, coming over, the twinkle in his sagacious eyes as he told him to go out and rob a bank. Then the eyes had changed to cool efficiency as he outlined his plan. Rusty was to enter the Planetary National, armed with a vib-ray gun. He was to menace the employees, then be trapped by pre-informed police. In feigned terror, he was to turn the gun upon the crowd, fire. Actors had been 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 best lawyers against him, sent to Pluto for life. Stories about this dread penal colony were dreadful, but mostly speculative. Forbidden entrance by the Interplanetary Control, Tele-news agencies had few facts. A first-hand story would be worth millions. It was Rusty's job to get it.