If Frank Belknap Long is not one of the deans of science fiction writers,there can certainly be no dispute that he is high on the faculty board.His pen is indefatigable, it seems, and his characters come alive as withfew other writers. We're sure you'll like this new suspenseful tale of his.
the
man
the
martians
made
by ... Frank Belknap Long
No mortal had ever seen the Martians, but they had heard theirwhisperings—without knowing the terrible secret they kept hidden.
There was death in the camp.
I knew when I awoke that ithad come to stand with us in thenight and was waiting now forthe day to break and flood thedesert with light. There was aprickling at the base of my scalpand I was drenched with coldsweat.
I had an impulse to leap up andgo stumbling about in the darkness.But I disciplined myself.I crossed my arms and waited forthe sky to grow bright.
Daybreak on Mars is like nothingyou've ever dreamed about.You wake up in the morning, andthere it is—bright and clear andshining. You pinch yourself, yousit up straight, but it doesn'tvanish.
Then you stare at your handswith the big callouses. You reachfor a mirror to take a look at yourface. That's not so good. That'swhere ugliness enters the picture.You look around and you seeRalph. You see Harry. You seethe women.
On Earth a woman may notlook her glamorous best in theharsh light of early dawn, but ifshe's really beautiful she doesn'tlook too bad. On Mars even themost beautiful woman looks angryon arising, too weary and tormentedby human shortcomings totake a prefabricated metal shackand turn it into a real home for aman.
You have to make allowancesfor a lot of things on Mars. Youhave to start right off by acceptinghardship and privation as yourdaily lot. You have to get accustomedto living in constructioncamps in the desert, with the reddust making you feel all hollowand dried up inside. Making youfeel like a drum, a shriveled peapod, a salted fish hung up to dry.Dust inside of you, rattlingaround, canal water seepage rottingthe soles of your boots.
So you wake up and you stare.The night before you'd collecteddriftwood and stacked it by thefire. The driftwood has disappeared.Someone has stolen yourvery precious driftwood. TheMartians? Guess again.
You get up and you walkstraight up to Ralph with yourshoulders squared. You say,"Ralph, why in hell did you haveto steal my driftwood?"
In your mind you say that.You say it to Dick, you say it toHarry. But what you really say is,"Larsen was here again lastnight!"
You say, I put a fish on to boiland Larsen ate it. I had a nicedeck of cards, all shiny and new,and Larsen marked them up. Itwasn't me cheating. It was Larsenhoping I'd win so that he couldwaylay me in the desert and getall of the money away from me.
You have a girl. There aren'ttoo many girls in the camps withlaughter and light and fire inthem. But there are a few, andif you're lucky you take a fancyto one particular girl—her fullred lips and her spun gold hair.All of a sudden she disappears.Somebody runs off with her. It'sLarsen.
In every man there is aslumbering giant. When life roarsabout you on a world that'srugged and new you've got to goon respecting the lads who havethrown in their lot with you, evenwhen their impulses are as harshas the glint of sunlight on a desert-polishedtombstone.
You think of a name—Larsen.You start from scratch and youbuild Larsen up until you have aclear picture of him in your mind.You build him up unt