THIEF OF MARS
By HENRY HASSE
Fate dealt Ron Jordan grim alternatives ... death by
decree of the Space Patrol, or murder at the hands
of this ruthless Martian pirate.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ron Jordan presented a disgusting sight of an Earthman in the last stages of dissipation, as he slouched along the single dark street of Halo City, the sardonically named pirate base on Ceres, Ron's clothing was dirty and worn, his shoulders hunched carelessly and his arms dangled by his side. A week's growth of beard was on his face, and his hair was ragged and unkempt. If he had straightened from his slouch he would have been an inch over six feet, with a lithe bulk that belied the height; and despite his unsavory appearance at the present moment, his gray eyes in the dark face were startlingly clear.
The outward appearance was all a disguise, for Jordan had a mission here.
From the crude stone buildings on either side of the street came sounds of drunken laughter, the click of gambling wheels, and occasional curses as some player lost. And once Jordan saw the thin, blue flash of an electric pistol. He shrugged, knowing that life was cheap among these cut-throat pirates of many planets; he'd seen more than a score of men die in the single month he'd been here.
As he neared the end of the street, one of the doors near him opened and two men staggered out. One was a bulking Martian with dark, leathery face and heavy-lidded eyes. The other was an Earthman. The Martian, a little drunk, stumbled into Jordan and cursed. Jordan mumbled an apology and tried to move unobtrusively out of the way. At this, the Martian's lips curved. He turned to his champion and said contemptuously: