Monk had enough Devil Egg seeds to retire
for life. But there was the matter of the pretty
Martian girl, eliminating Luke, and, of course—
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The cool Martian wind crept across the rust-red expanse of desert.Occasionally its soft touch stirred the thorny leaves of Devil'sEggs—the squat black plants which peppered the silent monotony. Hereand there a wisp of sand spiraled upward into the bright, thin morning.
The wind felt clean and new on Monk O'Hara's coarse, blond-stubbledface. He chuckled as noisily as a man buried neck-deep in sand canchuckle.
"Nothing to worry about," he muttered.
"Not a goddam thing."
It was uncomfortable, of course. No man would relish being beaten byhysterical Martian tribesmen, spat on, and buried to roast in the100-degree Martian noon or freeze in the 50-below-zero night.
Yet the Summer wind from the melting Polar icecap would insure anendurable temperature through the day. Monk's lungs—enlarged andsensitized after two years of prospecting for Devil's Egg seed—wereaccustomed to the planet's scant atmosphere. Destruction of his oxygenmask presented no menace.
"Idiots," he mumbled. "The fool Martians made off with the sandcar likekids with ice cream—and left enough Egg seed to buy a thousand cars!"
He was able to turn his head just enough to glimpse the heavy, fatsacks that the tribesmen had dumped out of the sandcar.
The sacks bulged with the fine black seed that, properly processed,made the deadliest, costliest, and most habit-forming narcotic inthe System. The sacks were symbols of a shining future for MonkO'Hara—symbols of fine clothes, beauteous women, choice whiskey and,most important of all, a return to earth.
Of course, it was too bad about the old man.
The white-bearded, toothpick-slim Martian trader and his black-haireddaughter had pitched their tent next to his camp last night. The girlhad been amazingly full-bodied for a Martian. Her round, firm body andsensual lips made him suspect that she was a half-breed, a delightfulcombination of Martian grace and Earthly sultriness.
Monk smiled as he saw her again in his mind's vision.
She slid off her antelope-like lozelle, came to him slowly with hersmall, naked feet swishing through the sand.
"It is all right for us to camp by you?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Wewill not bother you?"
"Not at all," Monk answered, his heart pounding. After all, it'd beensix months since he'd even seen a woman—any kind of woman.
"What is your name?" the girl asked.
"Monk, they call me. Monk O'Hara." He could feel the blood pulsingthrough his temples.
"I am Tooli." She curtsied. "You like me?"
"Yeah," Monk, breathed. "I like you a lot."
Later, through the ports of his sandcar, he watched her lithe movementsas she and her father set up their tent. Throughout the night, hissleep was thin and restless, his mind on fire with the vision of thedark, lovely face.
So early this morning he'd gone to her again. "How about some coffee,kid? Got plenty in the sandcar."
She crinkled her nose teasingly. "Yes, I like Earth coffee. My boclecome too?"
"No, just you, kid. Your old man's busy taking down the tent."
She nodded eagerly, smiling. "Yes, I come. I like you."
What greater invitation did a man need?
But in the sandcar the little fool screamed. The old Martian dartedinto the car, yanked Monk away from Tooli, a