Meteor-Men of Mars
By Harry Cord and Otis Adelbert Kline
Like tiny meteors, the space-ships plunged
into Earth's atmosphere, carrying death for
all who opposed their flight. The fate of a
world rested in Hammond's hands—and his
wrists were fettered at his sides.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It came out of the dawn sky, slanting like a fiery meteor out of theeast. The two men in the skiff saw the glowing streak in the sky andheard the sound of its passage, like the loosing of a nest of angrysnakes overhead, a scant second before it plummeted into the calmwaters of the Sound.
A geyser of water and steam shot up not a hundred yards from the maroonand gold skiff. The boat rocked and pitched to the disturbance.
Frank Hammond, seated at the bow, clamped a taped hand over the side tohold himself, surprise quickening the intentness of his dark, handsomeface. He was a lithe, bronzed figure, clad only in blue trunks and ropesandals. Stroking for his college crew in years that were warm memorieshad padded naturally wide shoulders.
"What the devil?" he ejaculated. "Did you see that, Pete?"
Peter Storm grinned. Two inches under his companion's six foot length,he weighed ten pounds more—a heavily muscled figure who could movewith deceptive speed as many an opposing eleven had found out in hiscollege football days. Blond, phlegmatic of nature, he took thingseasier than his more restless friend.
"Meteor, you dummox!" he jibed, good-naturedly. "Ever hear of onebefore?"
Hammond stared at the spot where the agitation was quieting. "I heardof them," he said shortly. "But this is the first time one ever fellthis close to me."
Storm shrugged. "Forget it. This is our last day before going back tothe grind. Let's make the most of it. Remember that bet we—Boy!" Hebroke off, standing up to haul in.
His catch proved to be a bluefish, a three pounder. He unhooked it,disgustedly, while Frank, measuring it with a quick glance, gave him aBronx cheer. "If you can't do better than that that new hat's in thebag," he jeered.
They went back to their heaving and hauling, bantering good naturedlyover every catch, completely forgetting the strange visitor from theskies.
Both were research chemists for the New York Analytical Laboratories;both were unmarried. They had been inseparable comrades since theircollege days, when both wore identical crew cuts, dressed alike, andalways either double-dated or stagged it. In memory of those days theirskiff, the Crawfish, had been painted maroon inside and a goldenyellow outside, maroon and gold having been their school colors.
Their vacation camp was on Ramson's Island, just off Ramson's point onthe Connecticut shore. The rocky island was uninhabited. They had leftcamp early, intent on making the most of their last day. Reaching thefishing "hole" they had anchored. Both men taped their hands, and eachprepared his jig, a long bar of lead to which a hook was attached, andbegan the process of "heaving and hauling" used in the vicinity forluring bluefish.
They had been at it for about an hour when the "meteor" landed.
Fifteen minutes later they had forgotten it.
The sun was a huge red ball balanced on the rim of the sea when Franksuddenly felt a jerk on his line that nearly wrenched his arm from itssocket. He said nothing. His lips merel