THIEF OF MARS By HENRY HASSE Fate dealt Ron Jordan grim alternatives ... death by decree of the Space Patrol, or murder at the hands of this ruthless Martian pirate. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ron Jordan presented a disgusting sight of an Earthman in the last stages of dissipation, as he slouched along the single dark street of Halo City, the sardonically named pirate base on Ceres, Ron's clothing was dirty and worn, his shoulders hunched carelessly and his arms dangled by his side. A week's growth of beard was on his face, and his hair was ragged and unkempt. If he had straightened from his slouch he would have been an inch over six feet, with a lithe bulk that belied the height; and despite his unsavory appearance at the present moment, his gray eyes in the dark face were startlingly clear. The outward appearance was all a disguise, for Jordan had a mission here. From the crude stone buildings on either side of the street came sounds of drunken laughter, the click of gambling wheels, and occasional curses as some player lost. And once Jordan saw the thin, blue flash of an electric pistol. He shrugged, knowing that life was cheap among these cut-throat pirates of many planets; he'd seen more than a score of men die in the single month he'd been here. As he neared the end of the street, one of the doors near him opened and two men staggered out. One was a bulking Martian with dark, leathery face and heavy-lidded eyes. The other was an Earthman. The Martian, a little drunk, stumbled into Jordan and cursed. Jordan mumbled an apology and tried to move unobtrusively out of the way. At this, the Martian's lips curved. He turned to his champion and said contemptuously: "Listen to him. He apologizes. The scum!" With that word, he struck Jordan hard across the face with the back of his hand. Jordan took the blow, falling to the street and cringing. Hot anger flooded his brain at the insult, and his muscles quivered. However, he restrained himself, for he had long ago decided that his mission here could only be accomplished passively. He peered up through eyes that were dull now, and saw the Martian's hand slide to the pistol in his belt. Jordan tensed, ready to launch himself up. But the Martian's companion stopped him when his hand was on the pistol. "Don't waste a charge on him. Besides he's useful to us around here--runs errands, cleans out the ships, etc. I think he's a little touched." He tapped his head significantly, looking pityingly down at Jordan. Jordan peered up and allowed his lips to part in an idiotic grin, revealing teeth and gums that were purplish as though from chewing the mind-destroying _Eishn_ stems.