Message From Mars By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK Fifty-five pioneers had died on the "bridge of bones" that spanned the Void to the rusty plains of Mars. Now the fifty-sixth stood on the red planet, his only ship a total wreck--and knew that Earth was doomed unless he could send a warning within hours. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "You're crazy, man," snapped Steven Alexander, "you can't take off for Mars alone!" Scott Nixon thumped the desk in sudden irritation. "Why not?" he shouted. "One man can run a rocket. Jack Riley's sick and there are no other pilots here. The rocket blasts in fifteen minutes and we can't wait. This is the last chance. The only chance we'll have for months." Jerry Palmer, sitting in front of the massive radio, reached for a bottle of Scotch and slopped a drink into the tumbler at his elbow. "Hell, Doc," he said, "let him go. It won't make any difference. He won't reach Mars. He's just going out in space to die like all the rest of them." Alexander snapped savagely at him. "You don't know what you're saying. You drink too much." "Forget it, Doc," said Scott. "He's telling the truth. I won't get to Mars, of course. You know what they're saying down in the base camp, don't you? About the bridge of bones. Walking to Mars over a bridge of bones." The old man stared at him. "You have lost faith? You don't think you'll go to Mars?" Scott shook his head. "I haven't lost my faith. Someone will get there ... sometime. But it's too soon yet. Look at that tablet, will you!" He waved his hand at a bronze plate set into the wall. "The roll of honor," said Scott, bitterly. "Look at the names. You'll have to buy another soon. There won't be room enough." One Nixon already was on that scroll of bronze. Hugh Nixon, fifty-fourth from the top. And under that the name of Harry Decker, the man who had gone out with him. The radio blurted suddenly at them, jabbering, squealing, howling in anguish. Scott stiffened, ears tensed as the code sputtered across millions of miles. But it was the same old routine. The same old message, repeated over and over again ... the same old warning hurled out from the ruddy planet. "_No. No. No come. Danger._" Scott turned toward the window, started up into the sky at the crimson eye of Mars. What was the use of keeping hope alive? Hope that Hugh might have reached Mars, that someday the Martian code would bring some word of him. Hugh had died ... like all the rest of them. Like those whose names were graven in the bronze there on the wall. The maw of space had swallowed him. He had flown into the face of silence and the silence was unbroken.