They trailed a legend through the void,
seeking a world of freedom, adventure and
wealth. They reached their goal, a planet
beyond all planets, a weird land of the
Lost—where silent death prepared to strike.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mark Travers hoisted himself up from the floor. He leaned against thesupply locker, rubbed his aching jaw where the big man's fist had justlanded, and grinned ruefully.
The big spaceman didn't grin. He faced Mark straddle-legged andsnapped, "Who are you?"
"Mark Travers." His smooth gray eyes surveyed the man's bulk. Hethought he could handle him, but filed it for future reference when hesaw the neutro-gun in the other's fist.
"Travers, eh. A blasted stowaway! You come aboard at Marsport?"
"Obviously."
"How?"
"It was easy," Mark shrugged. "Your ship was small, dark, and carriedno insignia. I watched your men loading supplies secretly. Furthermore,you hadn't filed your destination with Central Bureau. Just the kind ofset-up I wanted."
"You know a lot," the big spaceman's eyes went hard. "Are you asneaking I-S-P? Never mind. I'll see for myself!" He came a stepforward, and his gun got playful with the third button on Mark'splasticoid shirt. Expertly the man's fingers went over him.
"Careful, there, I'm ticklish!"
"So's the release on this trigger, so just stand still."
Mark stood still. The search revealed no papers or identification ofany kind.
"I'm not I-S-P," Mark told him sincerely. "If I were, do you thinkyou'd ever have lifted gravs from Marsport?"
"Okay, fella. I'm Mal Driscoll. Sorry I had to clip you so hard, butyou never should have pointed that contraption at me when I stepped inhere. So help me, I thought it was some new kind of weapon." His eyesnarrowed. "What is it?"
For a mere second Mark hesitated. He glanced down at the small,stub-lensed box which he had clung to.
"Why, it's—only a camera. New type, invention of my own."
Driscoll nodded. "Come on, stowaway. We'll go up and see Janus. No skinoff my teeth, if he wants to keep you aboard."
They stepped out of the room and along a corridor, bracing themselvesagainst the forward thrust of the rocket engines.
"Who's Janus?"
"Our Commander."
"And what if he doesn't want me aboard?" Unobserved, Mark pressed ahidden stud in the black box. Tiny but powerful coils hummed to life,quickly ascended the scale to the inaudible. Camera? Mark smiled tohimself and hoped none of the men here knew anything about cameras!
"You know the space-code on that," Driscoll answered his question. "Ifit is so desired, stowaways are tossed into space."
Mark racked his brain. "I don't remember that in the InterplanetaryCode!"
Driscoll turned, grinned at him. "Who's talking about InterplanetaryCode? We make our own!"
Janus was in a forward cabin poring over charts on a glass-toppedtable. Three other men were lounging there. Janus was six-feet-four,with bulk to match. He had flaming red hair and an outlandish fullbeard that made a vivid splash against the drab gray of his insulatedtunic.
He scowled fiercely as the two men entered. Driscoll pushed Markforward.
"Found this stowaway in the supply room. Says his name is Mark Travers.I don't think he's I-S-P, though."
Janus' deep-set gray eyes seemed to bore through Mark, then theyflashed to the black box.
"What's that?"
"New-design projection camera. It—"
"Put it here," Janus indicated the