*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65208 ***

               Like pioneers in Earth's past, Terry and
             his wife came to the red planet seeking their
            fortune. But others came too, ready to prove--

                          Death Walks On Mars

                            By Alan J. Ramm

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             February 1958
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


There was death above. The Martian Sand Vulture swooped and hissed and
twitched its barbed, poisonous tail in the thin air.

There was death below. The man lay cradled in the pebbly sand. Red sand
that matched the color of his hair and the color of the blood oozing
slowly from the hole in his forehead and trickling greasily along the
inside of his punctured head-bubble. The air whistled thinly through
the corresponding hole in the bubble as the oxygen converter tried
vainly to maintain the proper breathing mixture.

There was death in the muzzle of the gun dangling nonchalantly from
the tall man's gloved hand. It grinned from his face, etched in the
sardonic twist that the purple scar gave to his right cheek. It danced
in the emotionless distances of his eyes.

There was death in every beat of Leeda Carson's heart. With the
adaptability of a pioneer she accepted the fact of death; even that of
her husband's. The last two long Martian years had tested Terry's and
her love; refined it with hardships and discouragement. The menacing
gun was an easy way to rejoin him. But it was too easy; too soft a
response to unwarranted killing. With unrelenting determination, she
kindled and fanned to life a fierce resolve that the three men before
her would pay, as slowly and as painfully as possible, for what they
had done.

Through lips necessarily stiff with the effort of controlled emotion,
she asked, "Why did you kill him?"

"Didn't have anything against him, Ma'am. Had to do it. Showed we meant
business. Easier to handle one than two of you anyway." The eyes of the
tubby man who answered her kept flickering anxiously upward toward
the Sand Vulture. "That thing as dangerous as they say?"

Leeda turned to the third and youngest man. His glance was fixed
hypnotically on the death on the ground. His skin was pale and his
forehead beaded with sweat. She repeated, "What did you do it for?"

"Got into trouble at Canalport. Heard a rumor that you and your husband
had struck a pocket of Martian Sunbursts. Fixed up a deal with a ship's
cargo master to smuggle us back to Earth if we turned your stuff over
to him. He jetted us out here. Left a while ago." The fat man itched
frantically as he answered her. They all itched, Leeda noticed. It
took a long time on Mars before anyone became used to the dust that
penetrated even the Protecto-suits. It produced an agony that demanded
attention; followed by festering sores.

"You talk too much, Fatso," the tall one said angrily.

"What's the difference, Rick?" Fatso said philosophically. "Won't do
her any good."

Rick turned to Leeda. "At least you know the score. Do you want to tell
us where the stuff is, or are you going to make it tough on yourself?"

Eyes like a Razor-back Sand Lizard, Leeda thought. "Out by our
diggings," she answered readily. His eyes moved to the plastic
bubble-house that she and Terry had called home when they weren't
digging. "Search the place if you don't believe me," she suggested. "We
never brought any of them back here with us. We cached them in the cave
until we were ready to go home."

"Then you did strike it?" the young man interrupted eagerly.

She nodded.

Rick turned to the young man. "Search the house, Jocco. She may be
lying."

The Sand Vulture wheeled and made a few low exploratory swoops toward
them as they waited for Jocco. Leeda automatically checked her clothing
to be sure she was completely covered. If that barbed tail touched the
skin, death came--slow, agonizing, sure.

Jocco came back. "Emptier than interstellar space."

Holstering his gun, Rick started off saying, "Let's go. And no funny
stuff."

Leeda smiled ironically and remained where she was. "It's not that
easy. The cave is four walking days away."

Startled, Fatso groaned. "Where's your sand-mobile?"

"Broken down at the diggings. We came back to get parts."

Fatso and Jocco cussed loudly. Rick quieted them. "Get the parts," he
told Leeda.

"You bring any water?" she asked.

"You haven't any?" Fatso's voice rose shrilly.

Leeda reached to her waist and the small attached flask. "Just this.
And Terry has--had--one just like it. Enough for a couple old-timers
like us. Not near enough for everyone now. Particularly with you being
new to Mars."

Jocco snatched the flask from Terry's waist.

"I'll take that, Jocco," Rick commanded. "And yours too," he gestured
to Leeda.

She handed it over obediently.

"But, Rick," Fatso began.

"No arguments. Share and share alike. I'll dole it out. Now get the
parts," he told Leeda. "You go with her, Fatso."

As soon as they were back, the men began to move off. For the first
time Leeda lost control of herself. "For God's sake, aren't you going
to at least bury him?"

Rick's face twisted with its wry grin as he walked back to her. "Give
the Sand Vulture a break. He's got to eat."

"But ..." she began to protest.

Swiftly he was beside her, doing something to her fingers. The pain
surged up her arm; brought her stomach up into her throat gaggingly.

Then he released her. Gave her a shove. "When I say move, that's what I
mean. Get going."

       *       *       *       *       *

The cold, dry Martian air sucked the moisture irresistibly through the
skin and suits. As the day slid slowly by, the ever near horizon stayed
practically featureless. The red sand bored like Callisto hornets into
the skin.

Lips began to crack. Twice they stopped to sip the water. The second
time, Rick looked at her. "How the devil do you know where we are?"

"Maybe I don't," she taunted.

"You'd better. We've no way of checking on you. But if you double-cross
me, I'll strip your clothes off and leave you to the first Sand Vulture
that comes along. Understand?"

"Don't worry," she answered, "I know the way. I've covered it often
enough. There are many little landmarks if you know what to look for."

When evening came, Rick let each of them barely wet their lips. Then
he said, "I need sleep and I can't trust anyone. So I'm going to hide
the water in the desert. If anything happens to me, you'll all die of
thirst. Now turn your backs."

Leeda heard him scramble off. He soon returned. "Now let's sleep."

The below-zero cold of the Martian night challenged the thermo-unit of
Leeda's desert suit until she lay shivering. But, worn out from the
walk and the emotional events of the day, she finally dropped off to
sleep.

It was still dark when she awoke. Deliberately making a noise, she
listened for someone to challenge her. When no one moved, she slipped
off into the desert.

It took her several hours at a rapid pace to get back to the
bubble-house. Terry's Protecto-suit lay scattered over a wide
area. His bones gleamed faintly in the barely discernible Martian
moonlight--picked clean by the Sand Vulture and Razor-back Lizards.

Flinging herself on the sand, she poured out her grief with dry,
racking sobs. The power to cry had long since been sucked out of her by
dehydration.

Rising at last, she gathered together the things she had come for.
When, at last, she returned to the night's camp, the three men were
still fast asleep.

Next morning, while they sat munching the tasteless emergency food
tablets that were carried in the desert, Rick went after the water.
Suddenly his cussing rolled across the desert toward them. Leeda smiled
quietly.

He came back at a half-run. Disgustedly, he flung the flasks at their
feet. The sides had gaps ripped in them. "What nitwits," he cursed.
"Naturally, the cold froze the water. When it expanded, it tore the
flasks apart. You knew this would happen," he accused Leeda.

"Of course," she admitted.

Fatso struck her across the shoulders, knocking her onto the sand.

"None of that, Fatso," Rick commanded. "We need her worse now than
ever. Is there any water near?" he asked Leeda.

"About two days away. And then it's a gamble whether it will be good to
drink. Sometimes the water following the strata from the pole hits a
pocket of mineral that's poison. When that happens, The Explorers Guild
puts up a Death's Head Sign to warn anyone from drinking it. As you
know, they check every water source regularly."

"Is it far from your strike?" Jocco asked.

"About a day's walk."

"Any water at your cave?" Rick questioned.

"None. We didn't use much. And when we did need a supply, we got it
from the outcropping I've mentioned and took it back and distilled it."

"Well, we've got to head for the spring," Rick decided. "And it better
be good water," he warned Leeda. "If it isn't and we've got to die out
here, I'll see that you never bring in those Sunbursts either."

       *       *       *       *       *

They plodded voicelessly after Leeda. She set as fast a pace as she
dared. Even then Fatso began to drift back.

"Keep up, damn you," Rick warned. "If you don't, we'll leave you here
alone."

Midway through the morning, Jocco burst out. "Look at her. Fresh as a
Venusian pool lily. She must have some water on her."

Grimly they searched Leeda. She stiffened against their invading
fingers and smiled at them derisively. "I told you that a veteran
doesn't need water like you do."

Rick took her arm and twisted it until she crumpled with a cry onto
the sand. His voice was full of suspicion. "What a fool I've been. Why
didn't you abandon us last night when you had the chance?"

Shrugging out of his grasp, she rose and turned to him, "I wouldn't
miss the pleasure of seeing you all die for all the Sunbursts on Mars."

She strode away at a faster pace than before.

It was about six hours after they had been on the way that Fatso
stopped and began to yell. "Damn dust. Grinding right into my guts.
Gotta scratch." He ripped and tore at his clothes until his stomach was
bare. With a look of unutterable satisfaction, he began to itch and dig.

The SWOOOOSH could hardly be picked up. There was a long shadow; then a
scream from Fatso. The Sand Vulture's tail came out of his belly red.
Then the Vulture was away; circling high and out of range.

Blindly Rick pulled his gun and fired. Fast as his trigger finger was,
the poison was faster. By the third shot Fatso began to scream. His
voice rose up the scale of torture; bursting occasionally in a paean of
agony. And as he screamed, he lay on the ground writhing. Before their
eyes, his stomach began to bulge and turn purple from the poison. His
eyes rolled up into his head. And the moans began to dribble from his
lips like the litany of an insane chorus.

"I can't stand it," Jocco shouted. "How long will it last?"

"Not long enough," Leeda answered, her voice brittle with
satisfaction. "Only about ten hours. And in that time he will become
mindless, an animal begging for death; then finally, he'll just grovel
there moaning, and moaning, and moaning."

"You wanted this to happen to him," Jocco accused.

Leeda looked at him. "And I hope the same for you--only worse."

"Stop it, you two," Rick commanded. "It's bad enough this way. The
living must live. He is dead and he doesn't know it. Why let him
suffer?"

"More meat for the Sand Vulture," Leeda suggested sarcastically.

The scar on Rick's cheek flared red-purple. He leveled his gun slowly,
with steady aim. After the trigger was pulled, Fatso stopped moving.
"More meat for the Sand Vulture," he answered Leeda. "Now let's move."

       *       *       *       *       *

The red dust whispered at Leeda all day--Death--Death--Death. Even
with a pebble in her mouth to suck on, she felt her lips split and
wrinkle. Her blood, sweet in her mouth, was welcome moisture. She set
her shoulders forward and plodded through the endless sand and pebbly
underfooting.

Toward evening Jocco stumbled and fell several times. At last he lay
limply; looking to Leeda and Rick pleadingly. His lips moved slackly
until he at last managed to croak, "Gotta rest. Can't go on. Please
don't leave me."

Rick mouthed his reply thickly. "I'm pretty beat myself. Let's rest."

Leeda flopped to the sand without an answer. Her mouth was full of
tongue. The pebble she had been sucking feeling like a file against her
lips. Every muscle ached; every cell screamed for moisture.

After a long, wordless rest, Rick hauled himself to his feet and faced
Leeda. "Can't trust you now. You'll sneak off and leave us alone."

Leeda looked at him scornfully. "Don't worry about that. I meant what I
said. I want to see you die."

"Still got to watch you," Rick replied. He turned to Jocco. "You get
some sleep first. I'll watch her. Later I'll wake you to take over."

Leeda molded a hip hole in the sand and settled down. The night cold
had long descended when the two men changed shifts. All through his
trick, Rick had sat facing her. She lay quietly, simulating sleep.
At last Jocco began to nod and doze. For a while he managed to jerk
himself awake; but he finally fell over and slept.

Cautiously she crept over to him and shook his arm. He didn't stir.
Satisfaction touched with grim humor warmed her internally as she
bent over him and removed his boots. She moved with them off into the
desert. Satisfied at last that she was far enough from camp, she heaved
the boots into the desert darkness.

She wasn't gone long, but even so she had barely settled down again
when she heard Rick shake Jocco, "Wake up, you fool. I'd like to kill
you for this. The girl could have crept off and you wouldn't have known
it."

"I'm sorry, Rick. But I'm tired. I couldn't help it."

Rick began to cuss but stopped. "What's the use. Go back to sleep. I'll
finish your watch."

       *       *       *       *       *

It wasn't until they were ready to move the next morning that Jocco
noticed that his boots were missing. He turned to Leeda. "You stole
them."

"Don't be a damned fool," Rick answered. "She was watched all night.
You probably had a nightmare and heaved them out into the desert. Let's
look."

Leeda watched them search in an ever widening circle. Limping and still
bootless, Jocco moved with Rick back to the camp.

"You'll have to try it as is," Rick was saying as they came close.

"But I can't," Jocco whined. "The dust almost drove me crazy with them
on. What will I do this way?"

"That's your problem," Rick said callously. "Come or stay here alone.
It's up to you." He turned to Leeda, "Glad to see you look so lousy
this morning. At least you are suffering some, too. If you're telling
the truth, we'll be at the pool tomorrow."

They were on the way about a half hour when the sand around Jocco's
feet began to boil. Almost immediately his voice rose shrilly and then
disappeared except for twitchings on his cheeks and lips.

"What's wrong, Jocco?" Rick asked.

"His feet," Leeda said laconically.

It looked as though Jocco was sinking into the sand. Then the red
stains spreading into the sand told a different story.

"Razor-back Lizards," Leeda informed Rick. "They're all over the place.
Come to life during the day when it's a little warmer. Our footwear
keeps them off. But Jocco's feet haven't any protection so they can get
at him. They'll slice away at him a fraction of an inch at a time.
In fifteen minutes there won't be anything left but his suit and a
skeleton. Pleasant death, eh Rick? But after all, they do have to eat,
as you have said."

Jocco toppled and lay twitching on his side; the legs of his
Protecto-suit apparently buried in the sand. The pants legs were
strangely deflated except for the twisting and squirming of the unseen
Lizards as they ate their way into the upper part of the suit. It took
less than fifteen minutes. At the end, Leeda looked away. Once, long
ago, she had watched in horror as the blood-colored tide burst into the
helmet of a prospector friend of Terry's and hers. It was a sight that
she had seen many times later in nightmares. Now as she imagined it,
she heard Rick suck in his breath sharply and say hoarsely, "No! No!"

"Shall we be moving on?" she asked at last. The suit filled only with
fleshless skeleton, lay deflated on the ground.

Rick's face was a dull sandy yellowish hue. He nodded and turned off
into the desert without a word.

That third day was shooting pains, a chest that protested with every
step, legs that could not be felt but somehow magically functioned.
Many times Leeda was ready to quit. She began to stagger and weave
erratically across the sand. The only thing that kept her going was
the obsession of revenge that seemed to provide a limitless source of
power whenever she seemed weakest. And Rick was getting bad; he seemed
about finished. How he managed to keep moving, Leeda could not imagine.
He fell repeatedly; but pulled himself doggedly back to his feet and
stumbled after her.

When she flopped to the sand toward nightfall, he gestured her to her
feet. And when she failed to get up, he came over and dragged her
roughly erect. "Can't stop--never get up--gotta keep moving--until we
die--or get there. Move!"

But the Martian night accomplished what she could not. Landmarks became
indistinguishable; they soon would have been lost.

Lying down, Leeda adjusted her head-bubble so that it became opaque;
conserving the warmth that leaked off so rapidly from a transparent
object.

At long intervals she tried to move away from Rick who had settled
right beside her. But each time his hand grabbed her firmly, forcing
her back to the sand. He apparently intended to stay awake all night so
she wouldn't sneak off.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the morning of the fourth day arrived, they rose and once more
moved stiffly, without a word for one another, across the wastes on the
route that Leeda had selected.

Without quite knowing how it had happened, Leeda twice found herself
on her knees on the sand. She knew she had been staggering; that her
strength had long past left her; yet she was still amazed that her
legs would not do the bidding of her mind. Each time she fell, Rick
jerked her roughly to her feet and supported her until her legs moved
automatically again.

His eyes were red-rimmed; his lips a ghastly slash of scabs and sores.
About mid-morning he began to mumble incoherently, as though his voice
alone could keep him sane. The only recognizable word that slid through
his lips was, "Water! Water!"

It beat like the tone of a bass Callisto Satan Temple drum on Leeda's
strained mind until she began to vision waterfalls and huge cakes of
ice on the desert before her. Reality and imagination became mixed
until she wondered if there was a place called Mars and if the past few
days were real.

And it became noon; then mid-afternoon.

Suddenly the water-hole appeared as a dark spot on the featureless
landscape before them. Distinguishable only by the lichens that
surrounded it.

They both broke into a shuffling, jerky trot. Leeda was yards behind
Rick when he reached the mud-hole. Instead of flinging himself down
to the moisture, he stiffened, then his voice broke into a babbling
cackle. He pointed to the perma-metal sign staked in the watery mud. A
Death's Head stood embossed on its surface; the Interplanetary symbols
for DEATH etched into the age-resisting metal.

Then his hand moved like doom to the skeleton that lay, head touching
the red mud, on the edge of the hole.

Ignoring Leeda completely, his voice broke into a hideous sing-song
of wild laughter; and the word, "Poison," tumbled endlessly from his
throat.

He stopped abruptly and turned to the desert. The lines of agony on
his face smoothed out and the old sardonic grin twisted its way to his
cheeks. Only his eyes gleamed madly. With a tremendous effort, he said
loudly, "Water! There. Only a little way off."

And he staggered off into the desert, his arms extended eagerly, his
hands fluttering aimlessly.

Leeda watched him go. Watched him chase his mirage out into the Martian
wastes that extended for hundreds of miles without the slightest trace
of water. Watched him stagger into oblivion until he became small with
the distance.

Kneeling, she pushed the mud aside in the water-hole forming a small
trough into which the red water could seep. Then she advanced the
gauge on her head-bubble until she was breathing almost pure oxygen.
Patiently she breathed in the mixture. After fifteen minutes, she
removed the head-bubble and bent her lips to the accumulated water. Her
oxygen saturated system would easily permit her to go a full ten or
more minutes without having to take a breath.

Twice she lay back and let the water regain its level. Then drank.
Satisfied at last, she placed the head-bubble once more onto its
flange in the suit.

Rising, she pulled the poison sign from the mud and carried it over to
the skeleton. There she eased herself to the sand and gently placed her
hand on the head of the skeleton.

"We did it, Terry," she said gently. There was triumph in her voice; a
feeling of peace and wholeness once more inside her. "The fools thought
they could beat us. Four days to make an easy five hour walk. Circling;
around and around. Waiting. Waiting and planning, and killing. Now they
are dead and I can give you a decent burial.

"Forgive me, my Darling for moving you over here that first night. But
I needed the sign and you to get even. Thanks for your help."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65208 ***