by Earl
They were caching the loot under a rock, in typical pirate fashion. Evidently they expected to dispose of it some other day, in the black markets of the solar system. Jarl waited until the five men had relaxed, sitting and laughing over their coup, no doubt. Now was the time . . . .
Jarl took full advantage of the sunlight which stabbed over his shoulder, as he strode out in full view. They were temporarily blinded as they whipped out their ray-pistols and fired wildly at him. Jarl fired with cold, emotionless precision. The months and months of target practice, which all Space Patrol men underwent, now proved itself. He dropped two men with two hip shots of his guns.
Then two more of the pirates attempted to dart behind a rock. Jarl got them. The remaining pirate, evidently the leader, now had a dead aim at Jarl. He was pressing the trigger with a devilish grin. Jarl had no time to whirl and beat him to the shot.
But the shot missed, nevertheless, for Jarl amazingly sprang straight up—a mighty leap of fifty feet. The asteroids had such weak gravities that such a leap was possible. And at the height of his leap, while the pirate leader was still thunderstruck, Jarl aimed down—and it was over.
Jarl stayed only long enough to send out a radio call to Space Patrol headquarters on Mars: “Lt. Jon Jarl reporting. Trailed pirates who robbed America to asteroids. Crew of five, deceased. Send cargo ship to pick up stolen loot. That is all.”
Some time later, back in his ship in space, Jon Jarl set the robot pilot and sat back, opening a book.
“Six guns blazing,” he read, “Pecos Pete, the terror of Western badmen, strode among the bandits and shot them down with the cold precision of a man of iron nerves and eagle eye!”
“Yes sir,” breathed Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol, “those old-time Westerners sure did lead an exciting life!” And there was no mockery in his eyes, only the dreamy look of a boy who reads of great heroes of the past.
LT. JARL ON MARS
Lt. Jon Jarl tore the calendar leaf off, the one which read July, 2261. Because of course it was now August 1st, 2261. You had to keep watch on such things, while cruising through space. It was so easy to forget the days passing, where there was no daytime and nighttime.
On the side of the one-man rocketship was emblazoned the huge white star of the Earth Federation, and the words SPACE PATROL. Lt. Jon Jarl was a policeman of this interplanetary age.
“Something like a motorcycle cop of the 20th century,” he mused to himself. “Only instead of riding a motorcycle along highways, I ride a rocketship through space. And instead of patrolling Route One between New York and Philadelphia, I’m patrolling the space-route between Earth and Mars.”
Jon Jarl was well versed on things of the 20th century, a time he liked to read about. Especially about the Old West of America, when westerners fought badmen and wild Indians. There was nothing like that in this time, though, he often sighed.
Mars hove to, as a bright red moon, and an hour later, Jon Jarl used the braking rockets for a landing. He was due to make his routine report to Martian Headquarters of the Space Patrol. He lowered to 500 feet and skimmed over the barren red deserts of Mars. Below lay an ancient canal, discovered in Earthly telescopes some five centuries before. But the canal was dry—bone dry.
All of Mars was a dry world. Long ago, it had had big oceans and seas, but they had dried up. And the Martian race, once numbered in millions, had died off with the vanishing water supply. Today, there were only a few miserable tribes of Martians left alive, huddling around the rare water-holes and wells. As for Earth colonists on Mars, they brought their own water from Earth. And it sold for as high as five Federation Dollars per gallon!
Yes, Mars was a poor dry world, only a shadow of its former glory.
At the juncture of two canal-beds, Jon passed over an ancient Martian city, mostly in ruins. Its former population of millions was gone. Perhaps a few Martians still haunted the ruins, eking out an existence in damp basements where they could gather precious dew-drops from the walls. Enough to live on.
Water on Mars was like radium on Earth.
Suddenly, Jon heard a shot from below. The hissing pop of a ray-gun. Instinctively, being a guardian of the law, he turned his ship and slanted down. Was somebody shooting below? At what? Why?
Landing the ship, Jon Jarl stared around at the tumbled ruins, waiting. Again a hissing shot, and Jon sped forward in that direction. In what had once been a city square, Jon came upon the cause of the disturbance. Two Martians huddled behind the fallen stones of a one-time public fountain. Shooting at them, from the nearby ruins, were three Earthmen.
“Stop!” yelled Jarl, running to the aid of the Martians. It was his duty to protect the Martians from greedy and unscrupulous Earthmen, quite like the American Indians came under the protection of the law in the 19th and 20th centuries.
In fact, curiously enough, a Martian was hauntingly similar to the Indians. A Martian had the same red skin, the same stolid air, even the straight black hair. Of course the one difference was that a Martian had four arms.
The two huddled Martians looked relieved as they saw the blue-and-gold uniform of the Space Patrol. They had no guns. They were only trying to keep from getting hit by the ray-shots.
Jon Jarl stepped out toward the Earthmen, his hand resting easily on the butt of his ray-gun. They might get him with a shot—if they dared tangle with the Space Patrol. And they might not. Jon Jarl could draw and fire in a fifth of a second, as recorded on the machines when he had been trained by the Space Patrol.
“Step out and explain. What this is all about,” commanded Jon, nearing them. “In the name of the Space Patrol.”
The three men muttered among themselves for a moment, and one of them bawled out in the rough accents of the typical roustabout—men who wandered from world to world, seeking adventure and profit wherever it could be found.
“Keep yer nose outa this, John Law,” he yelled. “This is between us an’ them Redhides!”
“Nothing doing,” retorted Jon Jarl. “You know the Martians are not to be molested. Why the shooting?”
Instead of answering, the Earthmen turned and slunk away through the ruins, with mutters that sounded like threats. Jon let them go and turned back to the Martians beside the ancient fountain.
“Explain what happened,” he demanded.
“Earthman try to drive us away from here,” one Martian answered in the guttural tones common to them. “We find precious treasure! They come to take it away!”
“Treasure?” echoed Jon. “What kind of treasure? Radium? Jewels?”
For answer, the Martians pointed to the fountain, and then Jon saw. A tiny trickle of the treasure leaked between the stones, from below. It was a treasure all right. The greatest treasure that could be found on Mars. It was water.
Suddenly it was all clear to Jon Jarl. “You Martians stumbled on this water. It probably trickles up from some subterranean pool. The Earthmen came along—saw the water—and wanted it for themselves. Not to wash in, and not just to drink—but to SELL IT! Once the word got around that water was here, more Martians would flock from all over, and they could sell it and rob you blind!”
Jon Jarl was not wrong, for elsewhere in the ruins, the three fortune-hunters were holding a conclave.
“Blast that John Law,” growled one. “He would come along just when we was ready to burn them Redhides down and destroy the bodies. Then we woulda had the water for ourselves.”
“Yeah, and made a fortune selling it,” muttered another.
The third, who was leader, came to a sudden decision.
“Listen, it’s too big a thing to let go by. We gotta bump off that John Law and take over the water.”
“And be hunted th’ rest of our lives, from one planet to the next? It’s a long chance to take, Grogann.”
“No yuh featherwit,” returned Grogann. “All we gotta do is make his death look like an accident. Instead of raying him down, s’posin’ we crush him under some rocks? Then when they find th
’ body, they think some of th’ ruins fell down on him. Get it?”
They got it! You could tell that by the devilish leer that came to their faces.
Creeping back toward the fountain, they climbed a high ruin wall, some 25 feet over the spot. They could see three figures below, casting shadows. Silently, they pushed a huge block of stone, which teetered for a moment and then plunged down, smashing among the three figures.
Grinning, Grogann and his men approached. “Th’ water is all ours,” he gloated.
“Is it?” came a calm voice, and Jon Jarl stepped out of shadow, with the two Martians. “I figured you’d try some trick like this, so we took three stone figures from the fountain and arranged them to look like us, while we hid.”
Grogann gasped and fired—or tried to. Jon Jarl’s shot took him in the wrist. The other two men raised their arms, surrendering. But while Jarl took their guns, Grogann made a sudden break for it. Darting behind debris, he scuttled away through the tangled ruins.
Some time later, he dared to stop and breathe freely. He had given that John Law the slip. Grogann’s grin froze then, for Jon stepped out before him, with one Martian.
“Blast it all,” spat Grogann. “How could yuh track me through these crazy ruins?”
“Simple enough,” informed Jon. “You got some of the water on your shoes. It left a wet trail. Quite a faint one, but in case you’ve forgotten, a Martian is the best tracker of two worlds. He led me here like a bloodhound. And now you’re caught.”
Jon took his final prisoner back to his ship, which would have to bear an overload for the short trip to Martian Headquarters. Before he left, he turned to the Martians.
“The water rights are all yours,” he said. “I’ll have the papers made out legally for you.”
The Martians said nothing, but they waved their four arms in farewell. In ancient times, Jon knew vaguely, that had been a salute reserved only for kings and potentates.
Jon Jarl grinned at the glum Grogann, as they flew toward Headquarters.
“Trying to steal that water puts you behind bars, Grogann. I’ll bet you’ll never take a drink of water again, without choking . . .”
THE SPACE OLYMPICS
Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol set his jaw grimly and piled on more speed. The rockets of his speedy police ship rose to a thundering crescendo, and every beam groaned with the strain. The rocketship hurtled through space at terrific velocity.
“I’ve got to make it,” Jon Jarl muttered. “I’ve just got to.”
Was Jon Jarl on some dangerous mission? Pursuing ruthless space bandits? Going to the rescue of some trapped expedition? Racing against time to prevent some tragic disaster?
Finally, he applied the braking rockets, as Ganymede came within sight. Ganymede was the largest moon of Jupiter, one of eleven. Jon landed his ship with a shuddering impact and leaped out. In fact, he shot out of the door like a cannonball and raced along as fast as his legs could maneuver. Panting, he pulled up, gulping for air.
Was he too late? Had all his frantic speed and effort been in vain? Had he failed—miserably failed—?
“Relax,” said a happy-sounding voice. “You made it. You have time to get in your seat before the first event starts. Two dollars, please.”
Gasping in relief, Jon paid and entered the stadium. Over its wide portals hung a huge sign—SPACE OLYMPICS! OPEN COMPETITION BETWEEN TEAMS OF ALL WORLDS!
Yes, Jon Jarl had made it in under the wire, in time for the first event. Jon took his seat and stared around the tremendous open-air amphitheater, seating some half-million souls from a dozen worlds. This was the main sports event of the year, with the champion athletes of every world competing.
An amplified voice rang over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! The first event will be the High Jump. Ralston of Earth—Goodall of Mars—Zendor of Venus—” The list droned on, and then the athletes performed, one by one.
The crowd was quiet over the first three jumps. There was nothing remarkable—nothing over 16 feet. But when Goodall of Mars raised it to 16 feet, 7 inches, a cheer went up. He was the man to beat.
The present Ganymede record for the High Jump was 16 feet, 9 inches. Funny, mused Jon, how such a record on Earth would be a fantastic sensation. On Earth, high-jumpers seldom got over six feet. But here on Ganymede, where gravity was one-fifth of Earth’s, athletes only weighed one-fifth as much. Therefore, quite logically, they could perform much more amazing feats of strength and speed. Yet, with gravity only one-fifth, it did not mean you could jump five times as high. There were certain laws of physics that limited the results.
A cheer rocked the stadium as Ralston of Earth won the High Jump, with one-half inch short of 17 feet. It was a new World’s Record for Ganymede.
The Broad Jump, next up, resulted in a record leap of 65 feet. That would be impossible on Earth, of course. The jumpers looked like huge frogs, bounding over the sand pits. This time a member of the Martian team won. Exactly as the sports experts had predicted, it would settle down to a contest between the two top-notch teams—those of Earth and Mars. None of the other teams stood a chance, except for the remote possibility of the team from Saturn’s moon.
More records reeled off. The shot-putt went to 140 feet. The javelin throw reached 300 yards. The pole-vault hit just under 38 feet. But Jon’s attention wandered for a moment, as with a sudden surge of recognition, he saw the beefy man sitting a few seats to the side. That heavy-jowled face, baggy eyes, unlit cigar travelling from side to side of his mouth, and the flashy checked suit—it was One Shot Morgan, the big-time gambler. If he had a bet on the Olympics—which was illegal, of course—he was not pleased with the way things were going. He was scowling.
Jon surmised he had bet against the Earth team, for Earth was now ahead on points, with Mars trailing. “If I could only trap that chiseler,” Jon sighed to himself. But he dismissed the thought, for One Shot Morgan had always been too cunning to let the police pin anything on him.
An intermission was called, and the crowd turned to buying the Warmies and Sniffs sold through the stands by hawkers. Ganymede was a chilly world, and the Warmies did exactly as their name implied. They were a form of peppery food that shot waves of heat through the body. Also the Sniffs—a sniff out of an oxygen-bottle—did wonders in pepping you up. Ganymede has a thin atmosphere, and the extra oxygen was almost necessary.
During the intermission, Jon decided to try to see his old schoolmate, Ron Ralston of the Earth team. Jon threaded his way below the stands and to the athletes’ barracks. The guard stopped him, but then seeing his Space Patrol uniform, let him through. Quite like the 20th century, a police uniform in 2261 A.D. was a magic talisman in such things.
Jon looked over the athletes getting rubdowns, but Ralston was not there.
“He got a message to meet someone outside,” informed the trainer. “I hope he gets back soon for his rubdown. He’s our star runner, ya know. If he wins the 100-yard dash, we got the Mars team outpointed, and we win.”
Jon nodded and went out to look for his friend. A track custodian pointed him to the left, and when Jon headed that way, he noticed a few dim figures under the shadows of the overhead stands. As Jon approached, unnoticed, voices came to him, and he recognized the grating tones of One Shot Morgan, the gambler. What was going on?
“Listen,” Morgan was saying to Ralston, a tall blond athlete. “This is your last chance, Ralston. Take this money and lose the race. Then the Mars team wins, and I collect big money.”
Ralston had evidently been fighting for control of his temper all this while, without speaking. Now his voice shot out. “You filthy scoundrel! Is that what you called me out here for? The answer is no. And I’m going to report you for attempted bribery.”
“You are?” grinned Morgan. But his grin was deadly, and his two strong-arm men stiffened. “Get to work on him, boys. Muss him up good. He won’t run the final race unless he wants to limp through it.”
The two hoodlums obeyed and
fell upon Ralston. He fought back, but it was a sure thing that—win or lose—he would be in no condition to run a race.
It was at this moment that Jon Jarl stepped from behind a pillar. He made a long leap forward, almost as long as the Broad Jump record, and fell in beside Ralston.
“Back, Ron,” he ordered. “Let me handle this. You’ve got a race to run.”
“As I live and breathe,” grinned Ralston. “My old school chum, Jon Jarl. Now I feel sorry for One Shot Morgan and his two pals!”
The two hoodlums made the mistake of trying to jump Jon Jarl together. Jon let the weight press him down till his knees were doubled, then flexed upward like a shot. One man’s head hit the stands overhead, and that was the last he knew. The other man recovered his balance and swung viciously for Jon’s face—only it wasn’t there. The return blow from Jon was like a meteor striking.
One Shot Morgan had watched in a sort of fascinated horror, as his two men went down. Now his hand plunged into his coat for a ray-gun—but he stopped with a groan, for Jon’s gun already aimed straight for him.
“Huh,” said Morgan, recovering his aplomb. “You ain’t got anything on me, copper. Try and prove anything of what you might have overheard. It’s your word against mine in court.”
Jon held up a small electrical device, hardly bigger than his palm. “Every word you said before is recorded by this Midget Dictaphone. This is one time you go behind bars, Morgan.”
Jon was back in his seat in time to watch the final event. Ralston ran the 100-yard dash in five and one-eighth seconds, beating the Mars runner. Earth had won the Space Olympics for 2261.
“Thanks to Jon Jarl,” Ralston told his teammates as they pounded him on the back. “You know, that guy used to beat me in every race back at varsity. Too bad he became a space cop instead of an athlete!”