Eight Million Dollars From Mars!

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!"