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Cosmic Tales, v. 2, issue 1, Summer 1939
Page 9
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COSMIC TALES 9 SWORDSMAN OF MARS By J. HARVEY HAGGARD "Fatty" Hammond hitched his space breeches up over his paunchy middle and leered through the glassite prow of the spacer at the monstrosities who waved gigantic mandibles from the purplish saw-toothed vines that crawled in every direction over the Martian canal bottom. "Goonies! Canal dwellers!" he howled. "Quit that, you Scissorbills. I'll go nuts, watching you make crazy faces!" A yellow monster, upright but segmented with horny sections like a crab, raised a slender mandible and made a contemptuous gesture at the earthman. The big bulbous face, surmounted with a single eye, writhed up into a derisive contortion, then spat a wad of greenish spittle squarely at Fatty Hammond. He ducked, and the frother slime splattered the glassite. That settled it. Fatty's jowls turned turkey red and he glared. Seizing a heat-gun from a holster he took a step toward the valve-lock of the spacer. Then he paused, a thought striking him. Ace and Highpockets, before leaving into the jungle in search of throxite, the fuel catalyst, had said that the Martian scissorbills were harmless. So Fatty chuckled sardonically, threw the heat-gun aside, and took a sword from a scabbard on the wall. It would be mandible against sword, and might be the best man win. "Spit at me!" rasped Fatty, swinging the sword in gleaming arcs that brought a smile of satisfaction to his pudgy lips. "Mock me, huh? I'll show those scissorbills!" The airlock was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze in. He kicked the outer lock open, looked warily across the clearing, and saw three of the monstrosities eying him curiously from the serrated purple planet growths. Fatty bunched his muscles, stepped out upon Martian soil, and grinned inwardly. He'd show them. These blankety-blank denizens of a red planet were going to see something now. They'd see what terrestrial muscles could do. They were watching him when he gave that terrific spring. Smallwonder that their single bulbous eyes protruded. Fatty went straight up, sixteen feet in the air, turning one somersault after another, and doing it slow motion. He came down not two feet from his take-off, landing on the back of his puffy neck. Scrambling wildly to his feet, he slashed to right and left blindly. Loud giggles greeted his foray. Then he stared sheepishly. The scissorbills hadn't left their tracks, but were watching him with giant mandibles swaying gently, and foolish titters rattled from their ogreish heads. Something was wrong, Fatty decided. He's intended to jump clean over their heads and slash down at them as he went by. Of course with the lesser gravity on Mars, his earthly muscles would be vastly superior. "Blast you sillies!" he panted, "I'll make you simper!" He leaned forward, gave a terrific kick backward. His heels skidded in the sand and his ear scooped up a pile of crimson dust as it went by. No friction, eh! He came down none too gently on his posterior, crawled back to vertical, and this time, he braced against the curving hull of the rocket liner. He was desperate this time, for he could see the segmented monsters closing in, hear their ghoulish laughter. Fatty had a wild notion of butting straight through their
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COSMIC TALES 9 SWORDSMAN OF MARS By J. HARVEY HAGGARD "Fatty" Hammond hitched his space breeches up over his paunchy middle and leered through the glassite prow of the spacer at the monstrosities who waved gigantic mandibles from the purplish saw-toothed vines that crawled in every direction over the Martian canal bottom. "Goonies! Canal dwellers!" he howled. "Quit that, you Scissorbills. I'll go nuts, watching you make crazy faces!" A yellow monster, upright but segmented with horny sections like a crab, raised a slender mandible and made a contemptuous gesture at the earthman. The big bulbous face, surmounted with a single eye, writhed up into a derisive contortion, then spat a wad of greenish spittle squarely at Fatty Hammond. He ducked, and the frother slime splattered the glassite. That settled it. Fatty's jowls turned turkey red and he glared. Seizing a heat-gun from a holster he took a step toward the valve-lock of the spacer. Then he paused, a thought striking him. Ace and Highpockets, before leaving into the jungle in search of throxite, the fuel catalyst, had said that the Martian scissorbills were harmless. So Fatty chuckled sardonically, threw the heat-gun aside, and took a sword from a scabbard on the wall. It would be mandible against sword, and might be the best man win. "Spit at me!" rasped Fatty, swinging the sword in gleaming arcs that brought a smile of satisfaction to his pudgy lips. "Mock me, huh? I'll show those scissorbills!" The airlock was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze in. He kicked the outer lock open, looked warily across the clearing, and saw three of the monstrosities eying him curiously from the serrated purple planet growths. Fatty bunched his muscles, stepped out upon Martian soil, and grinned inwardly. He'd show them. These blankety-blank denizens of a red planet were going to see something now. They'd see what terrestrial muscles could do. They were watching him when he gave that terrific spring. Smallwonder that their single bulbous eyes protruded. Fatty went straight up, sixteen feet in the air, turning one somersault after another, and doing it slow motion. He came down not two feet from his take-off, landing on the back of his puffy neck. Scrambling wildly to his feet, he slashed to right and left blindly. Loud giggles greeted his foray. Then he stared sheepishly. The scissorbills hadn't left their tracks, but were watching him with giant mandibles swaying gently, and foolish titters rattled from their ogreish heads. Something was wrong, Fatty decided. He's intended to jump clean over their heads and slash down at them as he went by. Of course with the lesser gravity on Mars, his earthly muscles would be vastly superior. "Blast you sillies!" he panted, "I'll make you simper!" He leaned forward, gave a terrific kick backward. His heels skidded in the sand and his ear scooped up a pile of crimson dust as it went by. No friction, eh! He came down none too gently on his posterior, crawled back to vertical, and this time, he braced against the curving hull of the rocket liner. He was desperate this time, for he could see the segmented monsters closing in, hear their ghoulish laughter. Fatty had a wild notion of butting straight through their
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