A Coffin for Jacob

By EDWARD W. LUDWIG
Illustrated by EMSH
With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader?
Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.
His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.
Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen, Martians or Venusians.
Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it was the dead man's hand.
Coma esta, senor? a small voice piped. Speken die Deutsch? Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?
Ben looked down.
The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.
I'm American, Ben muttered.
Ah, buena ! I speak English tres fine, senor . I have Martian friend, she tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eighty pounds, monsieur . I take you to her, si ?