Meteor-Men of Mars By Harry Cord and Otis Adelbert Kline Like tiny meteors, the space-ships plunged into Earth's atmosphere, carrying death for all who opposed their flight. The fate of a world rested in Hammond's hands--and his wrists were fettered at his sides. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It came out of the dawn sky, slanting like a fiery meteor out of the east. The two men in the skiff saw the glowing streak in the sky and heard the sound of its passage, like the loosing of a nest of angry snakes overhead, a scant second before it plummeted into the calm waters of the Sound. A geyser of water and steam shot up not a hundred yards from the maroon and gold skiff. The boat rocked and pitched to the disturbance. Frank Hammond, seated at the bow, clamped a taped hand over the side to hold himself, surprise quickening the intentness of his dark, handsome face. He was a lithe, bronzed figure, clad only in blue trunks and rope sandals. Stroking for his college crew in years that were warm memories had padded naturally wide shoulders. "What the devil?" he ejaculated. "Did you see that, Pete?" Peter Storm grinned. Two inches under his companion's six foot length, he weighed ten pounds more--a heavily muscled figure who could move with deceptive speed as many an opposing eleven had found out in his college football days. Blond, phlegmatic of nature, he took things easier than his more restless friend. "Meteor, you dummox!" he jibed, good-naturedly. "Ever hear of one before?" Hammond stared at the spot where the agitation was quieting. "I heard of them," he said shortly. "But this is the first time one ever fell this close to me." Storm shrugged. "Forget it. This is our last day before going back to the grind. Let's make the most of it. Remember that bet we--Boy!" He broke off, standing up to haul in. His catch proved to be a bluefish, a three pounder. He unhooked it, disgustedly, while Frank, measuring it with a quick glance, gave him a Bronx cheer. "If you can't do better than that that new hat's in the bag," he jeered. They went back to their heaving and hauling, bantering good naturedly over every catch, completely forgetting the strange visitor from the skies. Both were research chemists for the New York Analytical Laboratories; both were unmarried. They had been inseparable comrades since their college days, when both wore identical crew cuts, dressed alike, and always either double-dated or stagged it. In memory of those days their skiff, the _Crawfish_, had been painted maroon inside and a golden yellow outside, maroon and gold having been their school colors.