Eight Million Dollars From Mars!

                           By Winston Marks

                Pauker had killed ten men to get eight
             million dollars. Now his flight to Mars would
             insure his safety from justice. Or would it?

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             November 1954
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

His poise was perfect as he crossed the concourse with the highly
vaulted ceiling. He moved with purpose but not in haste, his arms
swinging freely, eyes straight ahead. At his heels, the squat, robot
luggage-carrier dutifully followed the "bone" which he carried in his
right hand.

At the long baggage counter, the husky, human attendant took the "bone"
and led the carrier under the counter through the low passage onto a
platform scale. He whistled. "That'll be $4,175.00 excess baggage," he
said.

Pauker nodded curtly and withdrew his billfold. He laid his ticket and
the currency on the counter while the attendant clipped paper tags to
the handles of his four bags, broke off the stubs at the perforations,
shoved the luggage off the cart onto a moving belt and replaced the
"bone" in its "homing" slot. The three-wheel robot rolled off the
scales, out the short tunnel under the counter and headed back for the
entrance.

"We don't see many leather bags here," the man said pleasantly. "They
weigh up too much."

Pauker's eyes darted to the man's face nervously as he examined the
ticket and made change. Was there suspicion in the young, bland
features?

The traveler was well aware of the extravagance of his heavy bags, and
he knew that most interplanetary trippers used the lightest, flimsiest
containers to remain under the 100-pound limit. At the risk of
appearing conspicuous, Pauker had decided on the stronger suit-cases.
There must be no chance of an accidental rupture of his luggage.
Legitimate people don't haul bundles of $1,000 interplanetary bills
around with them--not eight million dollars worth.

But it wasn't the young man's remark that broke his composure. It
was the sight of his four bags bouncing along the endless belt and
disappearing through an arch into the next room. Suppose customs got
nosey?

Normally, his research had revealed, only a cursory X-ray for weapons
was made, and he had delayed checking them through until the last
moment, so it was unlikely they would hold them up. Yet the fear
clutched his belly. He snatched at the baggage tags, his ticket and
change, jammed them in his valuables pouch which was fastened to his
belt, and moved hastily out of the depot.

Signs guided him to the line of waiting vehicles, and in two minutes
he was deposited at the base of the portable, fourstory, passenger
prep-building that sidled parallel to the spaceship.

       *       *       *       *       *

He surrendered his ticket at the ground-level door and was passed into
the men's disrobing room. Naked, except for the waterproof, web belt to
which he attached his pouch of personal effects, he folded his clothing
into the transparent bag with his berth number stamped on it, dropped
it in a marked hopper and stepped into the showers.

More signs led him through the soapy, sluicing bath chamber that
smelled mildly of phenol, through a gusty, hot drying room, and into
the corridor of inoculation booths. It was an ingenious maze of tiny
spaces. You stepped in, placing your feet on the painted foot-prints,
slipped the steel I.D. plate containing your metabolic data into the
slot, and _click_, a measured dose of anti-this-or-that serum shot from
a compressed air needle and penetrated the proper area of the body
without breaking the skin.

Pauker marvelled at the speed with which he moved down the row of
booths. The sliding exit panel from one booth into another remained
closed until the shot was completed, then flipped open, and you moved
on, untouched by human hands. The shots were painless, a mere prickling
sensation, and Pauker compared it to the brutal hypo-punching he had
endured in his youth during military basic training.

By the time he reached the last of the seven booths he was relaxing.
The mechanism of murder, robbery and escape which he had spent five
years planning had functioned perfectly. From the pull of the trigger
to the present moment, the operation was a tribute to his genius of
concentrating scrupulous attention to every minute detail. Now he was
beginning to enjoy the peace of mind that comes to a craftsman when his
work of art nears completion, and he knows success is positive.

As inside man on the fabulous Brinks-Interplanetary robbery, it had
been necessary to accomplish a very expensive identity change when he
dropped out of sight. Over $20,000 of his own savings, spot cash, had
been invested beforehand setting this up. But his biggest risk had been
in the double-cross. It was his biggest risk, and also his greatest
stroke of brilliance.

Staging the rendezvous with his seven underworld accomplices for the
pay-off, he had arranged that they arrive separately. Each in his
individual hideout, had thought it would be a general get-together at
the same place, same hour. Each arrived promptly at a different time
at a different rented flat, but all collected the same lethal payment
something less than an ounce of soft lead.

Ten men had died to bring the fortune into Pauker's hands, three guards
and seven, hoodlums. And each had been marked from the beginning.
Now there were no witnesses, no loose-ends, no chances of meeting an
avenging gangster on Mars, no waiting for a slug in the dark. Neat!
Clean! Perfection as he'd planned.

The entry panel to booth seven clicked behind him, he slipped the I.D.
plate into its slot and felt the sting pluck at his neck as the serum,
drug or whatever needled into his tissues. As he started to step from
the painted foot-marks a voice came hollowly over the partitions, then
louder as the exit door of the booth slid back.

Standing down the hall some ten paces were two men profiled to him. One
was the young, blond baggage man. He was saying, "--with a red scar
under his left eye. You sure you haven't seen him? It's quite import--"

Pauker, shrinking back in the booth, couldn't get entirely out of
view. He jammed his I.D. plate in the slot again, and the exit panel
closed. He exhaled a stale breath with trembling relief and leaned
against the wall. The voices continued, muffled by the partition, but
he could only catch a few words.

"--sorry--blast-off in six minutes--thing about it--not your
responsibility."

Then it was quiet. Pauker waited a full minute before he began tugging
at the exit door. It refused to open. A siren screamed faintly outside,
and a voice boomed a warning down the corridor, "Clear the prep
chamber. Blast-off in four minutes."

       *       *       *       *       *

Pauker fought back his panic. When the smooth, featureless panel failed
to open he stepped back to the hypo machine, winced slightly as the
second shot hit him in the same spot, precisely, and then he moved
swiftly through the panel which fell away, down the corridor, over the
covered ramp into the men's gallery of the spaceship.

A white-uniformed, male attendant hurried him down an aisle of
sponge-padded double-decker bunks, after a quick glance at his I.D.
"You almost missed the boat, mister," he said as he strapped Pauker
down. He slid the needle into an arm vein with an apology. "Sorry, no
time for a local."

Pauker didn't complain. His heart was pounding noisily, and he was much
too upset to notice the stab in his arm. It was the nutrient tube which
would feed him for some nine months in space.

When the male nurse was gone, Pauker realized that a small speaker by
his ear was talking to him, softly, reassuringly, and after he heard
and felt the lump of closing hatches, he began listening.

The voice was finishing a description of the bubble-cities of Mars.
"And of the sixteen metropolitan centers, Marsfield, of course, is
the luxury spot of the planet. The spaceport is located there, and
all passengers clear through this lovely city of recreation. Even if
your business takes you on to the other cities, don't fail to pause
in Marsfield and enjoy the City of Beauty and Pleasure," the soft,
feminine voice urged.

He wouldn't fail to pause, Pauker reflected. Marsfield was his
destination. And now it looked like he'd really make it. That damned
baggage man had given him a bad moment. There was no red scar on his
left cheek, but his over-sensitive imagination had screamed that
Customs had opened his bags and sent this man down to search for him.
Obviously, the baggage man had been looking for another passenger, and
there had been no necessity to retreat into booth seven for concealment.

Oh well, he thought, if he made no worse errors than this he could look
back at a rather faultless operation. An extra shot of some serum might
give him a stiff neck or a headache, but this was a minor thing, and it
served him right for losing his head.

The purring voice in his ear expertly seduced his attention. He knew
it was part of the departure routine to dispel nervousness of the
several hundred passengers aboard, some of whom were bound to be
claustrophobes. The close-packing of humanity was necessary, of course,
from space limitations. So were the arrangements for keeping them
immobile on the whole trip.

This was no ocean liner where you could wander about, swim and play
shuffle-board. You bought your ticket, lay down and played dead for
nine months. It was part of the contract.

On the other hand, as the girl was explaining, "All possible care has
been taken for your safety and comfort. We are about to blast-off
now, and during early acceleration I will continue talking to you,
explaining the many answers to the questions that occur in most
people's minds."

       *       *       *       *       *

The first vibration seemed to start in his own chest, and the frequency
was so low that he felt, rather than heard it. Then the gentle motion
of departure pressed him deeper and deeper into the soft mattress.
The acceleration increased in easy stages so that each breath he drew
seemed only slightly more difficult than the last. The skin of his neck
and face pulled taut, and his lips flattened against his teeth.

"Continue taking deep, slow breaths," the voice advised. "There is no
need for any concern, because your pre-flight physical examination
determined that you are well fitted to withstand the slight discomforts
of space-travel. The several injections you received included carefully
measured doses of narcotics designed to make your journey more pleasant.

"One injection relaxes all your muscles, which, in turn, lowers your
metabolism and makes intravenous feeding adequate. You will know no
hunger or nausea, even when we go into free-flight."

There had been no change in the voice at blast-off, and Pauker realized
it must be recorded. It was all he could do to keep from swallowing his
tongue. Talking would have been impossible. They relaxed your muscles,
all right. It amounted to virtual paralysis!

Her spiel was clever, though. Rather than trying to lure people from
thinking about their bodies, which would be virtually impossible, the
woman's message dwelled on their sensations, making them sound normal.
She enumerated the purposes of the seven inoculations, one by one,
describing the immunities gained, and explaining the purposes of the
several drug injections.

"In booth six," she said, "you received a mild narcotic which will
allow you to drift into a time-consuming slumber if you so desire at
any time. The nature of this drug is to invoke a feeling of extreme
well-being, and the dreams that usually result are not dissimilar to
the old opium dreams of the orient.

"The slumber is shallow, however, and you may retrieve your senses from
the torpor at any moment with the slightest concentration."

Pauker was sweating profusely. Stuffy, he thought. No, just warm. There
was a slowly moving flood of fresh air flowing over the whole length of
his naked body, but it seemed, rather hot. The sweat oozed out heavily
to bathe his body, then the warm, very dry air began evaporating it.
Now the breeze felt delicious and cool.

Even as he wondered how the ship adjusted the air temperature to his
own needs the female voice launched into an explanation.

"Perhaps the most interesting injection you received was the
thermal adjustment retardation drug. At this moment many of you are
experiencing delightful sensations of changing temperature. If you are
too warm, the moving air will seem cool as an ocean breeze. When your
skin cools, almost to the point of chill, then the air will seem to
turn warm and cozy.

"Actually, the temperature of the air is held carefully at 98.6
degrees, Fahrenheit, the exact temperature of the normal human body.
This is to help minimize your bodies' metabolism, or fuel consumption."

       *       *       *       *       *

These people thought of everything. Pauker wondered how many tons of
food-stuffs they saved having to haul just by this one device.

"A single unfortunate effect was found from this close temperature
control, however. Space-medical records revealed that if the body is
permitted to adjust to a single temperature over too long a period, the
body mechanism for its own heat-control becomes, you might say, rusty.
That is, when the passenger passes from the ship into the varying
temperatures of normal living, his body has difficulty taking over the
job of thermal control again.

"Excessive respiratory ailments such as flu, colds and pneumonia,
prompted the use of our present system. Since it was deemed necessary
to keep the body thermal adjustment equipment functioning, each
passenger now receives a minute injection of a retardation drug that
has the desired effect. This drug creates a slight lag between the time
of heat sensation and the beginning of perspiration.

"The body is allowed to sense an accumulation of heat, which finally
triggers the sweat glands into producing a slight oversupply of skin
moisture. The moving, dry air then evaporates this perspiration which
continues to flow a brief period _after_ optimum sensation is reached.
Thus, the body begins to experience the first sensation of chill--even
though the temperature of the air remains at 98.6 degrees. At this
point, the reaction lag expires and the perspiration stops, the body is
warmed as if bathed in hotter air again.

"This gentle oscillation between sensations of warmth and coolness
has a very pleasant secondary effect, you will find. The varying
temperature of your skin is too slight to be dangerous, yet it breaks
the tactile monotony which nine months of unchanging climate would
bring."

Pauker's teeth chattered together as the chill swept over him. This is
all very goddamned neat when it works, he thought miserably, but how do
you turn off the sweat?

His body had long since passed the comfort point, yet the sweat
was still flooding from his pores, and the gentle zephyr from the
air-conditioning seemed more like an autumn gale with a tang of winter
in it. Chills ran his vertical length and radiated from his spine.
Worse yet, as the paralysis drug took effect, he was even robbed of
the pleasure of shivering. The chatter of his teeth stopped, but the
swirling dankness flowed through his body unchecked.

The girl's voice paused a moment. "We are now entering maximum
acceleration phase. It is suggested that you concentrate on sleep. We
will continue the discussion when we reach free-flight."

Pauker gratefully tried to sink into the promised, narcotic slumber
as his mattress became firmer and firmer under him, but it was long,
miserable, frozen minutes before the ship's motion came to his aid and
blacked him out.

Free-flight!

       *       *       *       *       *

He snapped to consciousness and instantly recoiled from the discomfort.
To his surprise it wasn't the cold, now, but a dry, throat-rasping,
all-pervading heat that almost suffocated him. Sometime during his
unconsciousness his body had overtaken the thermal adjustment lag and
turned off the perspiration. Now he felt the ravages of an uncontrolled
fever. His mind wandered and refused to admit him to the promised
dream-state again. He thought he heard a voice. Yes, there was a voice,
the voice of the woman again.

"We are in free-flight," she announced with cheerful redundancy. "Now
you will begin to enjoy the full benefits of the rhythmic thermal
changes, since you are all floating freely under the loose bindings of
your couches. As we were discussing, the drug which--"

Again the voice cut off, but this time a male voice clicked in on
the circuit. "Attention all male passengers. Now hear this, all male
passengers: Will the gentleman who has a red scar on his left cheek
please report to the purser immediately upon arrival at Marsfield?
When you checked your bag you forgot to pick up your baggage check.
Attention all--"

While the message was repeated, Pauker smiled grimly to himself with
the memory of the shock he had received when the baggage man had
appeared in the passageway. So this was the reason? Some blundering
fool had walked off without his baggage check, and the attendant had
rushed aboard in search of him.

He wondered how anyone could be so stupid. Of course, everyone didn't
place the same value on his luggage.

The heat continued to build up in his fevered body until suddenly the
dam broke, and sweat fairly gushed from him. The relief was tremendous
but only momentary.

The girl's voice came on again, apparently with the flick of a
recorder, play-back switch, "--gives such fine regulation of the body's
thermal lag is a relatively new development in space-travel. Before its
advent, passengers invariably arrived at their destination with high
irritability from the thermal monotony.

"So the delightful comfort you now enjoy is just one more modern
service rendered by your host, the progressive Delta Spaceways
Corporation, Interplanetary.

"This being the last shot you received--in booth number seven--we
will now move on to a description and explanation of the free-flight
sensations you are now experience--"

_Booth number seven!_

The significance finally soaked into Pauker's mind. Booth number seven
was where he had fled for concealment and received a double dose of
drug injection! It was no wonder he was suffering the excessive lag in
thermal adjustment!

Already, the comforting coolness of the moving air on his sweat soaked
body was becoming too sharp. The chill rippled up from his groin,
raised the hackles of his neck-hair and diffused into his limbs like a
gelid syrup. A trickle of mucous dropped from his nasal passages and
stung his throat. He tried to roll his head, to hawk. It was hopeless.
The lassitude that held his limbs prevented the smallest motion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Only his breathing seemed within his control, and a minute later he
was fervently grateful. A bubble gathered deep in his trachea, and he
coughed. The irritation increased, and he coughed again, a dry, hacking
cough.

What kind of torment had he let himself in for, he wondered? Was he
forced to lie here shivering or roasting for nine months?

Another spasm of dry coughing shook him, and when it was over the first
hunger pang stabbed his stomach.

Hunger? They had said the intravenous feeding would prevent any
symptoms of hunger.

_Yes, Pauker_, he reasoned, _but the feeding was based on your
metabolism tests and the assumption that your temperature was swinging
between narrow limits. And it didn't account for the energy you are
using coughing!_

The chill grew deeper, sharper, and then he thought of the sleep
narcotic. He concentrated on sleep, and finally as the cold increased
he managed to slip into a shallow stupor. It was of mere seconds'
duration, however. His sweat stopped, his skin dried and the heavy,
wonderful warmth bathed him again. It was too delicious to waste on
sleep.

The warmth soaked into his bones slowly, deliciously, but now the
interval between his spasms of coughing grew shorter. The period of
comfort was brief, for the coughing ran up his temperature, and now
the hunger in his belly was beginning to become a source of major
discomfort.

Then came the thirst. The excessive loss of body fluids slowly
desiccated his tissues, and the thirst grew. And the power to perspire
was lost to him, and the salt of his past heavy sweats caked in his
pores and itched.

The incipient pneumonia was held in check by his extreme fever, but the
hacking, dry cough continued, keeping him awake and painfully aware of
the pleurisy pains.

The hunger, the thirst, the itch, the cough, the pain, the fever--the
grating struggle for every breath through his tortured, parched throat.

Pauker was not religious, but he prayed to God for life, then he prayed
to the devil for death, and as the kaleidoscope of pain neared the
limits of his conscious endurance, he cursed the drugs that kept the
spark of life alive inside his screaming body; he bent all his powers
of concentration on a futile attempt to wrench his arm free of the
miserly, intravenous needle; he tried holding his breath, swallowing
his tongue, willing himself to oblivion. To no avail.

His last fully rational observation was to glare at the miniature
chronometer, mounted above his face. It registered the elapsed time in
days, hours and minutes.

He stared at it with sunken, inflamed eyes. It was, of course, out
of order. For it registered only an absurd ten days, six hours and
fourteen minutes since blast-off--

       *       *       *       *       *

"Astonishing!" the Marsfield Surgeon-General exclaimed. "Simply
astonishing the survival power you people have given your passengers
with this new drug combination. See here," he prodded Pauker's
emaciated ribs. "He still reacts to stimulus. Good as dead, yet I doubt
that he fully lost consciousness the whole trip!"
{'title': 'Eight Million Dollars From Mars! by Winston K. Marks', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}