EXILES OF THE THREE RED MOONS
By CARL SELWYN
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?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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!