Edgar Burroughs: Swords of Mars

As my craft settled to the roof, a fat man, well smeared with black grease, appeared from behind a flier upon the engine of which he was evidently working.

He looked at me questioningly, and I thought with none too friendly an expression. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Is this a public hangar?”

“Yes.”

“I want space for my craft.”

“Have you got any money?” he demanded.

“I have a little. I will pay a month’s rental in advance,” I replied.

The frown melted from his face. “That hangar there is vacant,” he said, pointing. “Run her in there.”

Having housed my flier and locked the controls, I returned to the man and paid him.

“Is there a good public house near by?” I asked, “one that is cheap and not too dirty.”

“There is one right in this building,” he replied, “as good as any that you will find around here.”

This suited me perfectly, as when one is on an adventure of this nature, one never knows how quickly a flier may be required or how soon it may be all that stands between one and death.

Leaving the surly hangar proprietor, I descended the ramp that opened onto the roof.

The elevators, ran only to the floor below the roof, and here I found one standing with its door open. The operator was a dissipated looking young fellow in shabby harness.

“Ground floor?” he asked.

“I am looking for lodgings,” I replied. “I want to go to the office of the public house in this building.”

He nodded, and the elevator started down. The building appeared even older and more dilapidated from the inside than the out, and the upper floors seemed practically untenanted.

“Here you are,” he said presently, stopping the elevator and opening the door.

In Martian cities, public houses such as this are merely places to sleep. There are seldom but few, if any, private rooms. Along the side walls of long rooms are low platforms upon which each guest places his sleeping silks and furs in a numbered space allotted to him.

Owing to the prevalence of assassination, these rooms are patrolled night and day by armed guards furnished by the proprietor; and it is largely because of this fact that private rooms are not in demand. In houses that cater to women, these guests are segregated; and there are more private rooms and no guards in their quarters, as the men of Barsoom seldom, if ever, kill a woman, or I may qualify that by saying that they do not employ assassins to kill them, ordinarily.

The public house to which chance had led me catered only to men. There were no women in it.

The proprietor, a burly man who I later learned was formerly a famous panthan, or soldier of fortune, assigned me a sleeping place and collected his fee for a day’s lodging; and after directing me to an eating-place in response to my inquiries, left me.

Scarcely any of the other guests were in the house at this hour of the day.

Their personal belongings, their sleeping silks and furs, were in the spaces allotted to them; and even though there had been no guards patrolling the room, they would have been safe, as thievery is practically unknown upon Mars.

I had brought with me some old and very ordinary sleeping silks and furs and these I deposited upon the platform. Sprawled in the adjoining space was a shifty-eyed individual with an evil face. I had noticed that he had been eyeing me surreptitiously ever since I had entered. At last he spoke to me.

“Kaor!” he said, using the familiar form of Martian greeting.

I nodded and replied in kind.

“We are to be neighbors,” he ventured.

“So it would seem,” I replied.

“You are evidently a stranger, at least in this part of the city,” he continued.

“I overheard you asking the proprietor where you could find an eating-place. The one he directed you to is not as good as the one that I go to. I am going there now; if you’d like to come along, I’ll be glad to take you.”

There was a furtiveness about the man that, in connection with his evil face, assured me that he was of the criminal class; and as it was among this class that I expected to work, his suggestion dovetailed nicely with my plans; so I quickly accepted.

“My name is Rapas,” he said, “they call me Rapas the Ulsio,” he added, not without a touch of pride.

Now I was sure that I had judged him correctly, for Ulsio means rat.

“My name is Vandor,” I told him, giving him the alias I had selected for this adventure.

“By your metal, I see that you are a Zodangan,” he said, as we walked from the room to the elevators.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I have been absent from the city for years. In fact, I have not been here since it was burned by the Tharks. There have been so many changes that it is like coming to a strange city.”

“From your looks, I’d take you to be a fighting man by profession,” he suggested.

I nodded. “I am a panthan. I have served for many years in another country, but recently I killed a man and had to leave.” I knew that if he were a criminal, as I had guessed, this admission of a murder upon my part would make him freer with me.

His shifty eyes glanced quickly at me and then away; and I saw that he was impressed, one way or another, by my admission. On the way to the eating-place, which lay in another avenue a short distance from our public house, we carried on a desultory conversation.

When we had seated ourselves at a table, Rapas ordered drinks; and immediately after he had downed the first one his tongue loosened.

“Are you going to remain in Zodanga?” he asked.

“That depends upon whether or not I can find a living here,” I replied. “My money won’t last long; and, of course, leaving my last employer under the circumstances that I did, I have no papers; so I may have trouble in finding a place at all.”

While we were eating our meal, Rapas continued to drink; and the more he drank the more talkative he became.

“I have taken a liking to you, Vandor,” he announced presently; “and if you are the right kind, as I think you are, I can find you employment.” Finally he leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. “I am a gorthan,” he said.

Here was an incredible piece of good fortune. I had hoped to contact the assassins, and the first man whose acquaintance I had made admitted that he was one.

I shrugged, deprecatively.

“Not much money in that,” I said.

“There is plenty, if you are well connected,” he assured me.

“But I am not connected well, or otherwise, here in Zodanga,” I argued, “I don’t belong to the Zodangan guild; and, as I told you, I had to come away without any papers.”

He looked around him furtively to see if any were near who might overhear him.

“The guild is not necessary,” he whispered; “we do not all belong to the guild.”

“A good way to commit suicide,” I suggested.

“Not for a man with a good head on him. Look at me; I am an assassin, and I don’t belong to the guild. I make good money too, and I don’t have to divide up with anyone.” He took another drink. “There are not many with as good heads on them as Rapas the Ulsio.”

He leaned closer to me. “I like you, Vandor,” he said; “you are a good fellow.”

His voice was getting thick from drink. “I have one very rich client; he has lots of work, and he pays well. I can get you an odd job with him now and again. Perhaps I can find steady employment for you. How would you like that?”

I shrugged. “A man must live,” I said; “he can’t be too particular about his job when he hasn’t very much money.”

“Well, you come along with me; I am going there tonight. While Fal Sivas talks to you, I will tell him that you are just the man that he needs.”