The eery light of the double moons bathed the rocket as the larger moon joined the smaller. Deimos was his only hope, if any remained. There, they said, a man neither lived, nor died, ever again. The Martians were kind, people said. But who really knew?
The Martians had retired quietly to Deimos when the Earthmen came to Mars. They had a peculiar alien culture, nebulous and utterly inhuman. With their floating, wispy, mist-like shapes that suggested incomputable age, shapes the moons could shine through, and their fog cities. No one bothered them on Deimos, a barren rock even Earth Companies couldn't justify exploiting. But the Martians had peculiar abilities. Inhuman they were, but they seemed to have great influence over the human mind and the nervous system. On Deimos, it was said, there were dreams for a man who had nothing else; anyone, even a man like Barstac, was safe on Deimos. Few ever came back from where only the lost went. And those who did come back, it was said, didn't remember.
And for Barstac certainly there was no place else to go.
Now, through circumstances beyond him, he had a rocket; he was away from the cops, and seemingly free. The girl—
His helmet had been removed. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the girl secretly in the other pilot seat, calmly smoking a paraette. Barstac saw the heat gun in her lap. He had a fondness for the weapon; it had taken him ten years to piece it together. The psyche boys at the prison with their intricate scanners had made a mistake with Barstac—maybe the only one they'd ever made since the New System, but even they weren't infallible; they hadn't uncovered his inventive ability, even though he'd always had it. They had put him in the shops down among the power tools and the atomic machines. Ten years was a long time to build a simple heat gun; it had taken patience.
His hand darted out fast, hooked the heat gun from her lap. She gasped, then sank back again and looked at him. She wore the regular sports outfit, the helmet, the thigh boots. An expensive piece of blonde goods, very expensive, with an oval face and pointed chin, skin light and very clear. She gave him a slow steady look that was like turning on a cyclotron. Her lithe figure reminded him. Sure, there'd been other—but so long ago.
Barstac's hand darted out fast, hooked the heat gun from her lap.