Beyond The Yellow Fog By EMMETT McDOWELL "It is the little death," they whispered. "When that yellow mist starts creeping, you'll wish you were dead, sir." Gavin Murdock, hardened manhunter, coldly eyed the evil miasma rising through the mystery spaceship and braced himself for unguessable horror.... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Martian sniffed. "Frankly, Mr. Murdock, your account of yourself is laconic to say the least." Gavin Murdock grunted, his eyes wary and unblinking. He didn't reply. The Martian raised his eyes from the documents spread on his glassite desk. He gave the sandy-haired Murdock a shrewd penetrating glance and smiled dryly. "Of course, we get very few men in the slave trade who care to talk about themselves. We take that into consideration, Mr. Murdock. But an astro-engineer of your talents...." He glanced again at the papers on his desk. Murdock's pulse hammered suddenly in his throat. He swallowed dryly, but he still didn't interrupt. "This discharge," the Martian went on. "I see you were employed as first assistant-engineer on the luxury liner Cosmos. That's United Spaceway's crack ship. Would you care to tell me, Mr. Murdock, what persuaded you to apply for this post on the Nova?" "Blacklisted," Mr. Murdock said succinctly. "Belted the old man in the nose. I've been on the beach here in Venusport ever since. None of the shipping lines'll touch me." He lapsed into silence again. The Martian drummed long white fingers on the desk top. "You realize, Mr. Murdock, that when you sign the Nova's articles you forfeit your citizenship on Terra? The Earth Congress issued a proclamation to the effect that any Terran employed in the slave trade...." "What d'you expect me to do?" Murdock interrupted with a wry expression. He was a tall angular man in his early thirties. "Rot here on Venus? I'm not thrilled at taking a third's rating aboard a Jovian slaver. But it's a job." The Martian still hesitated, doubt registering on his paper-white, sharply-chiseled features. At length he said, "Very well," in a dry tone. "You'll have to go to the Commissioner's and sign the articles this afternoon. The Nova sails tomorrow. I'll give you your orders in writing." But he made no move to do so. Gavin Murdock stiffened imperceptibly, an alarm pealing in his brain. The Martian, he sensed, was stalling. For what?