Prison Planet. Wilson Tucker

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      Table of Contents

       COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

       PRISON PLANET

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1942 by Wilson Tucker.

      Originally published in Planet Stories, Fall 1942.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

PRISON PLANET

      “Listen, Rat!” Roberds said, “what I say goes around here. It doesn’t happen to be any of your business. I’m still in possession of my wits, and I know Peterson can’t handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney will be in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat, get this: I’m going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate or no Consulate, job or no job, I’m wheeling that crate to Earth because this is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than my position, to me at any rate.” His tone dropped to a deadly softness. “Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?”

      Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered the woman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look, wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met the stare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Gray almost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.

      “Won’t go!” The Centaurian resumed his fight. “You not go, lose job, black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know.” He retreated a precious step to escape a rolled up fist. “Little ship carry four nice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in water tanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards, allright. I pilot ship. Yes?”

      “No!” Roberds screamed.

      Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in the office froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared through the narrow door.

      “Peterson,” the field manager ordered, “come over here and help me throw this rat out....” He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of his chair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.

      “No need, no need, no need!” he said quickly. “I go.” Still backing, he blindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.

      * * * *

      When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.

      “Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?”

      “True enough.” Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. “It’ll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it’s her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn’t boast even one! So it’s Earth ... or she dies. I’d feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I’m not too confident of that patching job.” He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. “So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn’t meant to be funny!”

      Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.

      “Rat has the right idea,” Roberds continued, “but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!”

      The nurse came out of the door.

      “How is she?” Roberds asked.

      “Sleeping,” Gray whispered. “But sinking....”

      “We can take off at dawn, I think.” He filled the pipe and didn’t look at her. “You’ll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.”

      “I can take it.” Suddenly she smiled, wanly. “I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?”

      “Eight days, in that ship.”

      Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.

      “Who was that ... man? The one you put out?” Gray asked.

      “We call him Rat,” Roberds said.

      She didn’t ask why. She said: “Why couldn’t he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?”

      Peterson opened his mouth.

      “Shut up, Peterson!” the Chief snapped. “We don’t talk about his record around here, Miss Gray. It’s not a pretty thing to tell.”

      “Stow it, Chief,” said Peterson. “Miss Gray is no pantywaist.” He turned to the nurse. “Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?”

      Patti Gray paled. “Yes,” she whispered. “Was Rat in that?”

      Roberds shook his head. “He didn’t take part in it. But Rat was attached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch. And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on the Ganymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.

      “As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up around Centauria somewhere. He’s been hanging around all the fields and dumps on Mars a long time, finally landed up here.”

      “But,” protested Miss Gray, “I don’t understand? I always thought that leaving one’s post under such circumstances meant execution.”

      The Chief Consul nodded. “It does, usually. But this was a freak case. It would take hours to explain. However, I’ll just sum it up in one word: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.”

      The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.

      “Are you expecting the others in soon?” she asked. “It wouldn’t be right to leave Peterson.”

      “They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Base station for repairs, and to notify Earth we’re coming. He’ll be all right.”

      Abruptly she stood up. “Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I’m needed.”

      Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behind her. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.

      “Damned rat!” he whispered harshly. “They ought to make a law forcing him to wear dark glasses!”

      Roberds smiled wearily. “His eyes do get a man, don’t they?”

      “I’d like to burn ’em out!” Peterson snarled.

      * * * *

      Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel, checked the concentrated rations and grunted.

      Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. “The boss said strip her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside.” He followed the Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock. The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building. On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. “All set.”

      Roberds nodded at him. “Stick with it!” and jerked a thumb at Rat outside. Grease nodded understanding.

      “Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now.” He dropped the ladder against the wall and sat on it. “Good night.” He watched Rat walk slowly away.

      Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.

      “Here ... can you see me?” A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he stepped to the sill.

      “Yes?”—in