BLOOD ON MY JETS BY ALGIS BUDRYS ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL They were the hired gun-rabble of the System, engaged in the dirtiest, most thankless racket in all the worlds. But Ash Holcomb was doing all right, until the girl walked out of his past with high stakes in her pockets and murder in her eyes! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Rocket Stories, July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Rocket Row is the Joy Street of three planets. It's got neon lights, crummy dives, cheap hotels, and women to match. Every man who's ever rode a ship into space knows about Rocket Row. It runs along the far side of Flushing Spaceport, down toward the Sound. The New Shanghai was full of dockworkers and crewmen on liberty. It was noisy. I sat on a bar stool and watched the fog trying to infiltrate the open door. It didn't have a chance against the tobacco smoke that rolled out to meet it. Outside, the streets and alleys would be choked with wet, creeping darkness, full of quiet footsteps, and the cops would find empty-pocketed corpses behind the ashcans in the morning. * * * * * But none of that was any of my business. I was sick and tired of fog--the real kind, the kind they grow on Venus--and I was sick of the thought of blood. I'd seen too much of it, soaking into the hot mud, and some of it spilled by my guns. I wanted to forget the night, and fog that gave cover to every kind of dirty deal a man could imagine. I wanted to pull the corners of my world together until all that was left was the drink, the bar stool, and me. But it wasn't going to work out that way, because I was in the New Shanghai on business. And my kind of business was the dirtiest, lousiest, most thankless racket in the world. The bartender moved up to where I was sitting. "Have another one, Ash?" he asked. "Yeah, sure, Ming," I said. "You still make the best Stingers in the System. Maybe that's because you don't brew your own gin." "Could be, Ash, could be," he laughed. He shook up the drink and poured it in my glass. "How'd it go on Venus?" "It went," I said. Ming was one of the few people who admitted knowing I was a D.O.--a Detached Operative. It was a crummy job, but it suited me.