REVOLT ON THE EARTH-STAR By CARL SELWYN Carver, lonely derelict from a happier earth-age, raises the revolt-cry: "Down with the Capeks!" And the luxurious, human stockyards discharge their men-of-no-hope. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Rod Carver panted heavily and the sweat froze on his brow. Depending on his ax work now, he swung again and again, chipped shallow holes into which he wedged trembling fingers and pulled himself a little higher. Inch by precarious inch he crept up the sheer wall of the glacier, kicking his toes hard into the niches below. Chilling splinters flew down into his face as he chopped at the ice, high over the jagged and glistening crevice. Not much farther. Just a little more. The patch of gray lichen was but a few yards above him now. It was on a small ledge. He could rest there. He had not thought it was so far but he must be several hundred feet up by now. Despite the biting wind, he was hot in the fur suit that covered his muscular body. Eyes half-closed against the stinging shower that fell upon him, he moved slowly upward. There was a little crack in the ice just above him. Rod swung hard with the ax and it stuck there. Securing a firm hold with his left hand and making sure of his feet, he tugged at the short handle. It held tightly. He joggled the handle back and forth, then jerked at it. It came loose suddenly. His arm flew back and his feet slipped beneath him. His face banged against the ice. Panic screamed in him as he dangled by one arm. Madly, he clawed the wall with his other hand, flailed with his feet. Numbing fear bathed his entire body in cold perspiration. Then a foot found support and he caught a niche with his right hand. Rod clung there, weak and shaken, almost crying his thankfulness. Immediately upon the cessation of exertion, however, the cold crept upon him and he finally regained sufficient control to examine his plight. He had lost the ax. His mittens were slick and wet; constantly he stretched numbing fingers for a new grasp upon the faithless ice as a treacherous film of water formed beneath them. The wind whipped about him, breathed mournfully in the frozen recesses of the silent valley below. The sweat of fear formed on Rod's forehead and he shuddered. Bugs or no bugs, he should have known better than to venture away from the rest of his friends alone.