Galaxy Magazine (July 1955) by Galaxy

Author:Galaxy
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 1955-07-08T16:00:00+00:00

should be zero between 1 Before Christ and 1 Anno Domini.

-VILLY LEY

^At Times Square.

Wafking distance to

everything worthwhile* 1400 Rooms, each wrl private bath, shower.

Special rates for servicemen

80

DEADHEAD

By ROBERT SHECKLEY

All deadheads naturally came

to Mars without tickets

but

this one was just the ticket!

DROVE down to Marsport a few hours after the Earth ship landed. There were diamond-tip drills on board, which I had had on requisition for over a year. I wanted to claim them before someone took them. That's not to imply that anyone would steal anything; we're all gentlemen and scientists here on Mars. But things are hard to get, and theft-by-priority is the way a gentleman-scientist steals what . he needs.

I loaded my drills into the jeep just as Carson from Mining drove up waving a Most Urgent Top Crash Priority. Luckily, I had

had the good sense to secure a topmost priority from Director Burke. Carson was so pleasant about it that I gave him three drills.

He chugged away on his scooter, over the red sands of Mars that look so good in color photography, but gum up engines so completely.

I walked over to the Earth ship, not because I give a damn about spaceships, but just to look at something different.

Then I saw the deadhead.

He was standing near the spaceship, his eyes as big as saucers, looking at the red sand,

Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS

DEADHEAD

the scorched landing pits, the five buildings of Marsport. The expression on his face said, "Mars! Gee!"

I groaned inwardly. I had more work that day than I could accomplish in a month. But the deadhead was my problem. Director Burke, in a moment of unusual whimsy, had said to me, "Tuily, you have a way with people. You understand them. They like you. Therefore I am appointing you Mars Security Chief."

Which meant I was in charge of deadheads.

THIS particular one was about twenty years old. He was over six feet tall, with perhaps a hundred some very odd pounds of ill-nourished meat on his bones. His nose was turning" a bright red in our healthy Martian climate. He had big, clumsy-looking hands, big feet, and he was gasping like a fish out of water in our healthy Martian atmosphere. Naturally, he didn't have a respirator. Deadheads never do.

I walked up to him and said, "Well, how do you like it here?"

"Gol-/ee!" he said.

"Quite a feeling, isn't it?" I asked him. "Actually standing on a real honest-to-John alien planet."

«T>

I'll say it is!" the deadhead

gasped. He was turning a faint blue from oxygen starvation, all except the tip of his nose. I decided to let him suffer a little longer.

"So you stowed away on that freighter," I said. "You rode deadhead to wonderful, enchanting, exotic Mars."

"Well, I don't think you could call me a stowaway," he said, fighting for breath. "I sorta sorta —"

"Sorta bribed the captain," I finished for him. By this time, he was weaving unsteadily on his long, skinny legs. I pulled out my spare respirator and clapped it over his nose.

"Come on, deadhead," I said.

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