Mirage for Planet X

The prize was sealed, its contents unknown. Yet scavengers from a dozen barbaric Moons; adventurers from nameless, semi-explored asteroids, arrived for the deathless auction.... To bid on Roper's notorious loot.
They were bringing in the prisoners who had escaped from Phobos. Sand skimmer ambulances had raced to the spaceport outside the terraced Martian city and waited. Dust devils danced on the wide, wind-whipped Martian plains. Grannar of the Police and his silent companion examined each body as it was lowered from the rescue ship.
Death anywhere is an ugly business. On Mars, you get used to bodies that never rot. Deep-freeze temperatures hold down decay bacteria, and the dry, cold air quickly dessicates the tissue. Bodies turn into mummies that look and weigh like so much shredded wheat. But these corpses were worse—they were meaningless parodies that might never have been men. In primal disgust, Torry studied each one in turn, then shuddered and shook his head.
Grannar was tough minded, or stronger stomached. Police routines had taught him not to shudder.
You can get used to this, he observed, enjoying Torry's revulsion. Since you'd known Roper, we thought you could help us identify him. Thanks for coming along.
Had I a choice? asked Torry bitterly.
The policeman's laugh was brutal, explosive. There is always a choice. You can do as you're told or be dragged in screaming.
Torry grimaced. Much more of this and I'll be dragged out screaming.
The prisoner-escapees, what was left of them, were an unpleasant sight. Explosive decompression in airless space does curious things to men's bodies. Blood boils in the veins and flesh bursts from internal pressures. Also, there are heat-cold curiosities, with half a body burnt raw on the sunward side, and the rest frozen iron-hard with a lacy overlay of snowflake patterns in red.
Holden was still alive, by a miracle. Forward compartments had held together when the makeshift spacer blew its flimsy self inside out. He was alive but not talking. They brought the bulging mass of pulped, purple flesh back to Mars and dumped it in a basket. There was no face, no eyes, no recognizable hands or feet. For the time that remained to him, Holden would be less than a functioning animal, fed by tube, cared for by people he could not see or hear, living a precarious existence on the raw, black fringe of life. Holden was through talking. And for any practical purpose, through living.