Just entering his twenties, he had spent his life on the Martian wastelands, a motherless kid who had trailed a diamond-mad father over the wilderness of sand and rock.
Don had been seven when they struck the Suzie lode. There were plenty of the rough stones, and his father sent for the boy's uncle and his own brother. Together they were to mine and share alike.
Shortly after his uncle had arrived Don found his father with a charred hole in his heart, bleaching on the sand. Uncle Fred had cursed at him when he wept. Later, though, the man explained that it must have been one of the native Martians. Don believed him then, but as he grew and came to know his uncle, he began to doubt.
That morning Uncle Fred had abruptly announced that they were through, that the last gem had been mined from the Suzie lode. But there were many diamonds in the plastic boxes, enough to satisfy any man. They would pack their Iguana, Gecko, and make ready for the long trek.
So Don had stowed the saddle-bags and water-tanks. Gecko was ready and waiting outside. Don's last act was to gather his own scanty belongings. He was in the hut alone when Uncle Fred came in. Don raised his eyes to find himself staring into the belled muzzle of the electronic gun.
"Desert brat," said Uncle Fred thickly. "I'll blow you so wide open that there won't be a square meal left for a Wirler!"
And now Don knew that he was to die by the same hand that had killed his father. And Fred was through with him. The boy had helped to mine the gems, but his uncle had never intended that he should live to share them. That was why Uncle Fred had been drinking all day—to bolster up his courage to do deliberate murder. He raised the gun an inch. Don saw his finger tighten on the trigger. He closed his eyes, knowing that it would be all over in a moment.
The paper-thin walls of the hut vibrated with the thunderous crash of an electronic pistol. Donald's jaw went slack. For a paralyzing second he could only gape at his uncle. The man had uttered a choking cry, his fingers loosening the gun. Then he pitched to the floor in a limp heap.
In the open doorway stood a bullet-headed, brown-eyed man, holding a still-glowing electronic pistol. Over his shoulder peered a bearded, thick-lipped companion.