CRISIS ON TITAN
By JAMES R. ADAMS
What the devil! Was Captain Staley nuts? Here they
were ... no food, no water, about to be blasted out
of existence by strange inhabitants of a weird
planet—and Staley was making like a baseball player!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Hut! Twuh, hree, foar. Hut! Twuh, hree, foar. Hut! Twuh—" Sergeant Hallihan boomed forth the monotonous syllables with unfaltering precision, glaring from the corner of his eye now and then in hopes of catching some unfortunate fellow out of step or whispering to a companion with questionable reference to the sergeant.
The dust-caked ranks marched along quietly, carefully refraining from expressing their opinion of this disgusting detail, but Hallihan knew what they were thinking. And he could well understand their displeasure. These were hard-bitten, two-fisted, hell for leather I.P. men, and here they were with shovels and picks slung over their shoulders, plodding out to scratch in the dirt like common, dime-a-dozen ditch-diggers.
Hallihan felt as strongly about it as they, but orders were orders, and he prided himself on his ability to carry out a command, regardless of whether or not it conformed with his personal sentiments. This job had to be done, and the men all knew it could not be entrusted to a mob of imported flunkies. The Squeakers would make short work of such a motley crew.
The sergeant emitted a soft sigh between a snappy twuh and hree as his wandering gaze came to rest on the slow-moving grav-car, in which rode the brusque Captain Staley. The car skimmed along a foot or so above the ground, riding smoothly on its gravity-repellent ray. Hallihan suddenly became acutely aware of his aching feet. Would the captain never call a halt? Hell, they couldn't march straight through to the mine without rest. More than one soldier was dragging his feet, and the sergeant could hardly find the heart to snarl out his customary: "Get the lead out back there, soldier. Pep it up!"
Bringing up the rearguard of the orderly lines was as strange a group of "soldiers" as could be found on any moon of the system. These were the "Barber's Delights," an odd life-form of Titan that had formed a sort of aloof friendship with the Patrol from the moment it landed. The men jokingly called them Barber's Delights because of the thick, shaggy coat of hair that covered their log-like bodies. The B.D.'s either didn't understand, or just didn't care, for they made no objection to their nickname.