EXIT FROM ASTEROID 60
By D. L. JAMES
Strange things were happening on Echo, weird
Martian satellite. But none stranger than
the two Earthlings who hurtled into the
star-lanes from its deep, hidden core.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Echo is naturally magnetic, probably more so than any otherplanetoid—and Neal Bormon cursed softly, just to relieve his feelings,as that magnetism gripped the small iron plates on the soles of therough boots with which the Martians had provided him. Slavery—andin the twenty-ninth century! It was difficult to conceive of it, butit was all too painfully true. His hands, inside their air-tightgauntlets, wadded into fists; little knots of muscle bulged along hislean jaw, and he stared at the darkness around him as if realizing itfor the first time. This gang had plenty of guts, to shanghai men fromthe Earth-Mars Transport Lines. They'd never get by with it.
And yet, they had—until now. First, Keith Calbur, and then himself. Ofcourse, there had been others before Calbur, but not personal friendsof Neal Bormon. Men just disappeared. And you could do that in theMartian spaceport of Quessel without arousing much comment—unless youwere a high official. But when Calbur failed to show up in time for areturn voyage to Earth, Bormon had taken up the search.
Vague clews had led him into that pleasure palace in Quessel—a jointfrequented alike by human beings and Martians—a fantasmagoria oftinkling soul-lights; gossamer arms of frozen music that set yoursenses reeling when they floated near you; lyric forms that livedand danced and died like thoughts. Then someone had crushed a beadof reverie-gas, probably held in a Martian tentacle, under Bormon'snostrils, and now—here he was on Echo.
He gave an angry yank at the chain which was locked around his leftwrist. The other end was fastened to a large metal basket partly filledwith lumps of whitish-gray ore, and the basket bobbed and scraped alongbehind him as he advanced. Of the hundred or more Earthmen, prisonershere on Echo, only seven or eight were within sight of Bormon, visibleas mere crawling spots of light; but he knew that each was providedwith a basket and rock-pick similar to his own. As yet he had notidentified anyone of them as Keith Calbur. Suddenly the metallic voiceof a Martian guard sounded in Bormon's ears.
"Attention. One-seven-two. Your basket is not yet half filled, youroxygen tank is nearly empty. You will receive no more food or oxygenuntil you deliver your quota of ore. Get busy."
"To hell with you!" fumed Bormon—quite vainly, as he well knew, forthe helmet of his space suit was not provided with voice-sendingequipment. Nevertheless, after a swift glance at the oxygen gauge, hebegan to swing his rock-pick with renewed vigor, pausing now and thento toss the loosened lumps of ore into the latticed basket. On Earth,that huge container, filled with ore, would have weighed over a ton;here on Echo its weight was only a few pounds.
Neal Bormon had the average spaceman's dread of oxygen shortage. Andso, working steadily, he at last had the huge basket filled withore—almost pure rhodium—judging by the color and weight of the lumps.Nearby, a jagged gash of light on the almost black shoulder of Echoindicated the location of that tremendous chasm which cut two-thirdsof the way through the small asteroid, and in which the Martians hadinstalled thei