Police Your Planet | Page 2

wanted men who could
serve them loyally, even without orders. If he did them enough service,
they might let him back to Earth. If he caused trouble enough, they
could still ship him to Mercury.
"And suppose nothing happens?" he asked.
"Then who cares? You're just lucky enough to be alive."
"And what makes you think I'm going to be a spy for Security?"
The other had shrugged. "Why not, Gordon? You've been a spy for a
yellow scandal sheet. Why not for us?"
Gordon had been smart enough to realize that perhaps Security was
right.
They were in the slums around the city now. Marsport had been settled
faster than it was ready to receive. Temporary buildings had been
thrown up, and then had remained, decaying into deathtraps. It wasn't a
pretty view that visitors got as they first reached Mars. But nobody
except the romantic fools had ever thought frontiers were pretty.
The drummer who had watched Gordon tear up his yellow stub moved
forward now. "First time?" he asked.
Gordon nodded, mentally cataloguing the drummer as the cockroach
type, midway between the small-businessman slug and the petty-crook
spider types that weren't worth bothering with. But the other took it as
interest.
"Been here dozens of times, myself. Risking your life just to go into
Marsport. Why Congress doesn't clean it up, I'll never know!"
Gordon's mind switched to the readers in his bag. The cards were
plastic, and should be good for a week or so of use before they showed
wear. During that time, by playing it carefully, he should have his stake.

Then, if the gaming tables here were as crudely run as an oldtimer he'd
known on Earth had said, he could try a coup.
"... be at Mother Corey's soon," the fat little drummer babbled on.
"Notorious--worst place on Mars. Take it from me, brother, that's
something! Even the cops are afraid to go in there. See it? There, to
your left!"
The name was vaguely familiar as one of the sore spots of Marsport.
Bruce Gordon looked, and spotted the ragged building, half a mile
outside the dome. It had been a rocket-maintenance hangar once, then
had been turned into temporary dwelling for the first deportees, when
Earth began flooding Mars. Now, seeming to stand by habit alone, it
radiated desolation and decay.
He stood up, grabbing for his bag, and spinning the drummer aside. He
jerked forward, and caught the driver's shoulder. "Getting off!"
The driver shrugged his hand away. "Don't be crazy, mister! They--"
He turned, saw it was Gordon, and his face turned blank. "It's your life,
buster," he said, and reached for the brake. "I'll give you five minutes to
get into coveralls and helmet and out through the airlock."
Gordon needed less than that; he'd practiced all the way from Earth.
The transparent plastic of the coveralls went on easily enough, and his
hands found the seals quickly. He slipped his few possessions into a
bag at his belt, slid the knife into a spring holster above his wrist, and
picked up the bowl-shaped helmet. It seated on a plastic seal, and the
little air compressor at his back began to hum, ready to turn the thin
wisp of Mars' atmosphere into a barely breathable pressure. He tested
the Marspeaker--an amplifier and speaker in another pouch, designed to
raise the volume of his voice to a level where it would carry through
even the air of Mars.
The driver swore at the lash of sound, and grabbed for the airlock
switch.
* * * * *

Gordon moved down unpaved streets that zig-zagged along, thick with
the filth of garbage and poverty--the part of Mars never seen in the
newsreels, outside the shock movies. Thin kids with big eyes and sullen
mouths crowded the streets in their airsuits, yelling profanity. The
street was filled with people watching with a numbed hunger for any
kind of excitement.
It was late afternoon, obviously. Men were coming from the few bus
routes, lugging tools and lunch baskets, slumped and beaten from labor
in the atomic plants, the Martian conversion farms, and the industries
that had come inevitably where inefficiency was better than the high
prices of imports. The saloons were doing well enough, apparently,
from the number that streamed in through their airlock entrances. But
Gordon saw one of the bartenders paying money to a thickset person
with an arrogant sneer; he knew then that the few profits from the
cheap beer were never going home with the man. Storekeepers in the
cheap little shops had the same lines on their faces as they saw on those
of their customers.
Poverty and misery were the keynotes here, rather than the evil
half-world the drummer had babbled about. But to Gordon's trained
eyes,