Produced by Greg Weeks, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's note. This etext was produced from Comet July 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. DEVIL'S ASTEROID by MANLY WADE WELLMAN [Illustration: _The Rock Bred Evolution in Reverse_] It was not very large, as asteroids go, but about it clung a silvery mist of atmosphere. Deeper flashes through the mist betokened water, and green patches hinted of rich vegetation. The space-patroller circled the little world knowledgeably, like a wasp buzzing around an apple. In the control room, by the forward ports, the Martian skipper addressed his Terrestrial companion. "I wissh you joy of yourr new home," he purred. Like many Martians, he was braced upright on his lower tentacles by hoops and buckles around his bladdery body, so that he had roughly a human form, over which lay a strange loose armor of light plates. In the breathing hole of his petal-tufted skull was lodged an artificial voice-box that achieved words. "I rregrret--" Fitzhugh Parr glowered back. He was tall, even for a man of Earth, and his long-jawed young face darkened with wrath. "Regret nothing," he snapped. "You're jolly glad to drop me on this little hell." "Hell?" repeated the Martian reproachfully. "But it iss a ssplendid miniaturre worrld--nineteen of yourr miless in diameterr, with arrtificial grravity centerr to hold airr and waterr; ssown, too, with Terresstrrial plantss. And companionss of yourr own rrace." [Illustration: _"You! They drive you out?" A thick, unsure voice accosted him._] "There's a catch," rejoined Parr. "Something you Martian swine think is a heap big joke. I can see that, captain." The tufted head wagged. "Underr trreaty between Marrs and Earrth, judgess of one planet cannot ssentence to death crriminalss frrom the otherr, not even forr murrderr--" "It wasn't for murder!" exploded Parr. "I struck in self-defense!" "I cannot arrgue the point. Yourr victim wass a high official perrhapss inssolent, but you Earrth folk forrget how eassy ourr crraniumss crrack underr yourr blowss. Anyway, you do not die--you arre exiled. Prreparre to dissembarrk." Behind them three Martian space-hands, sprawling like squids near the control-board, made flutelike comments to each other. The tentacle of each twiddled an electro-automatic pistol. "Rremove tunic and bootss," directed the skipper. "You will not need them. Quickly, ssirr!" Parr glared at the levelled weapons of the space-hands, then shucked his upper garment and kicked off his boots. He stood up straight and lean-muscled, in a pair of duck shorts. His fists clenched at his sides.