Eight Million Dollars From Mars! — A Closer Reading

Pauker had killed ten men to get eight million dollars. Now his flight to Mars would insure his safety from justice. Or would it?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy November 1954 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

His poise was perfect as he crossed the concourse with the highly vaulted ceiling. He moved with purpose but not in haste, his arms swinging freely, eyes straight ahead. At his heels, the squat, robot luggage-carrier dutifully followed the "bone" which he carried in his right hand.

At the long baggage counter, the husky, human attendant took the "bone" and led the carrier under the counter through the low passage onto a platform scale. He whistled. "That'll be $4,175.00 excess baggage," he said.

Pauker nodded curtly and withdrew his billfold. He laid his ticket and the currency on the counter while the attendant clipped paper tags to the handles of his four bags, broke off the stubs at the perforations, shoved the luggage off the cart onto a moving belt and replaced the "bone" in its "homing" slot. The three-wheel robot rolled off the scales, out the short tunnel under the counter and headed back for the entrance.

"We don't see many leather bags here," the man said pleasantly. "They weigh up too much."

Pauker's eyes darted to the man's face nervously as he examined the ticket and made change. Was there suspicion in the young, bland features?

The traveler was well aware of the extravagance of his heavy bags, and he knew that most interplanetary trippers used the lightest, flimsiest containers to remain under the 100-pound limit. At the risk of appearing conspicuous, Pauker had decided on the stronger suit-cases. There must be no chance of an accidental rupture of his luggage. Legitimate people don't haul bundles of $1,000 interplanetary bills around with them--not eight million dollars worth.

But it wasn't the young man's remark that broke his composure. It was the sight of his four bags bouncing along the endless belt and disappearing through an arch into the next room. Suppose customs got nosey?

Normally, his research had revealed, only a cursory X-ray for weapons was made, and he had delayed checking them through until the last moment, so it was unlikely they would hold them up. Yet the fear clutched his belly. He snatched at the baggage tags, his ticket and change, jammed them in his valuables pouch which was fastened to his belt, and moved hastily out of the depot.

Signs guided him to the line of waiting vehicles, and in two minutes he was deposited at the base of the portable, fourstory, passenger prep-building that sidled parallel to the spaceship.

He surrendered his ticket at the ground-level door and was passed into the men's disrobing room. Naked, except for the waterproof, web belt to which he attached his pouch of personal effects, he folded his clothing into the transparent bag with his berth number stamped on it, dropped it in a marked hopper and stepped into the showers.

More signs led him through the soapy, sluicing bath chamber that smelled mildly of phenol, through a gusty, hot drying room, and into the corridor of inoculation booths. It was an ingenious maze of tiny spaces. You stepped in, placing your feet on the painted foot-prints, slipped the steel I.D. plate containing your metabolic data into the slot, and _click_, a measured dose of anti-this-or-that serum shot from a compressed air needle and penetrated the proper area of the body without breaking the skin.

Pauker marvelled at the speed with which he moved down the row of booths. The sliding exit panel from one booth into another remained closed until the shot was completed, then flipped open, and you moved on, untouched by human hands. The shots were painless, a mere prickling sensation, and Pauker compared it to the brutal hypo-punching he had endured in his youth during military basic training.

By the time he reached the last of the seven booths he was relaxing. The mechanism of murder, robbery and escape which he had spent five years planning had functioned perfectly. From the pull of the trigger to the present moment, the operation was a tribute to his genius of concentrating scrupulous attention to every minute detail. Now he was beginning to enjoy the peace of mind that comes to a craftsman when his work of art nears completion, and he knows success is positive.