THE ADDRESS FOR GALACTIC PICTURES IS A RUN DOWN, DINGY TWO STORY BUILDING IN A VERY UGLY PART OF THE CITY. I STEP INTO THE SEEDY LOBBY AND READ THE DIRECTORY. I WALK TO THE OFFICE WHERE GALACTIC PICTURES SHOULD BE, BUT THERE'S NOBODY HOME. I OPEN THE DOOR AND LOOK INSIDE. IT APPEARS GALACTIC PICTURES HAS RECENTLY CLOSED ITS OPERATION, AND THERE'S NO SIGN OF A FORWARDING ADDRESS...
YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE A PRIVATE EYE, NOR HAVE A PH.D. TO FIND TERRAFORM CORPORATION IN SAN FRANCISCO. YOU DON'T EVEN NEED TO SEE TOO WELL. JUST LOOK UP. TERRAFORM IS OVERWHELMING. IT'S THE BIGGEST BUILDING IN THE ENTIRE 'CITY BY THE BAY', OR ANYWHERE ELSE.
ONE STEP INSIDE AND YOU ARE INSTANTLY DWARFED BY THE 30' CEILING THAT ARCHES OVERHEAD. THE MICROWAVE MOTION DETECTORS, PRESSURE SENSITIVE PADS, AND ROBOTIC SURVEILLANCE WOULD MAKE A NAZI NERVOUS. ALL OF THIS SECURITY MUST HAVE EMERGED FROM THE DEVELOPMENT OF TERRAFORM CORP. TERRAFORMING IS A FIFTY YEAR PLAN TO MAKE MARS HABITABLE. IT MUST HAVE BEEN VERY DANGEROUS WORK AT THE ONSET. RAISING A PLANET'S TEMPERATURE 100 DEGREES, DESIGNING AND ERECTING AN EFFICIENT SOLAR SHIELD, TRANSMUTING THE LETHAL GASSES OF THE RED PLANET MUST HAVE WARRANTED RISK, SILENCE AND HEAVY SECURITY. SECURITY, YES, BUT THIS PLACE MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE 7TH GRADE GYM CLASS, ON THE FIRST DAY, IN THE SHOWERS. GOING IN NAKED AND ILL-EQUIPPED.
I GUESS I PASSED THEIR CHECK. A THICK NECKED GUARD TAKES ME OVER TO A TURBO ELEVATOR AND I HEAD FOR ALEXANDER'S OFFICE...


THEY SAY MONEY CAN'T BUY YOU HAPPINESS, BUT IT SURE CAN SCOOP UP ON EVERYTHING ELSE. I DROP INTO ONE OF ALEXANDER'S RESIDENCES, THE ONE ALEXIS WAS STAYING AT BEFORE SHE DISAPPEARED. THE PLACE MAKES THE TAJ MAHAL LOOK LIKE THE PROJECTS. I ENTER THE TEN FOOT SPIRED IRON GATE WITH GUILDED POINTS. THE HOUSE ISN'T EVEN IN SIGHT YET AS I ROLL PAST A FOREST OF FLOWERING SHRUBS AND SHORT TREES. SECURITY CAMERAS ARE EVERYWHERE... IF ALEXIS WAS KIDNAPPED SOMEBODY WAS DEFINITELY ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL. THE MAID AT THE DOOR HAS BEEN TOLD I WOULD BE COMING AND SHE LETS ME IN. I'M LED THROUGH A HALLWAY TO A CHAMBER OF MARBLE AND GLASS, TO ALEXIS' ROOM. IT ALL RESEMBLES A MAUSOLEUM. I FEEL MYSELF WHISPERING SO AS NOT TO WAKE THE DEAD...
JOHNNY FEDORA CERTAINLY PICKED A GARDEN SPOT. EVEN FREAKTOWN COULD NOT COMPARE TO THIS DESOLATE HELL HOLE.
THE GROUND AROUND THE JUNKYARD HAS THE EERIE GLOW OF LOW LEVEL RADIATION. THE WRECKAGE OF AUTOS, TRUCKS AND AIRCRAFT RUST IN THE CRATER OF A BATTLEFIELD NUCLEAR BLAST. THESE ARE THE CHARRED HUNKS OF MACHINES LEFT AFTER THE WAR. ALL CONTAMINATED BY RADIATION, RADIATION THAT WOULD LAST 12 MILLION YEARS.
I SEE AN OLD RAILROAD CAR THAT MATCHES THE DESCRIPTION I'VE BEEN GIVEN FOR FEDORA'S HOUSE. THERE'S SOME SORT OF DOG CHAINED NEAR THE PLACE. IT'S A MUTATED CROSS BETWEEN A BULLDOG AND A RHINOCEROS...




ONE OF THE MOST OPULENT, AND EXPENSIVE RESTAURANTS ON THE WEST COAST, CLEMENTS IS A STUNNING EXAMPLE OF ELEGANCE. FOUR LEADED GLASS CHANDELIERS CAST A WARM LIGHT ON THE CHERRYWOOD QUEEN ANNE STYLE DINING TABLES. THE SOUND OF STERLING SILVER TABLEWARE TINKLES FROM THE KITCHEN. ORIGINAL ARTWORK, LEADED CRYSTAL, AND RARE IMPORTED WINES CALL OUT TO ME.... I HOPE THEY'LL TAKE A 2 PARTY CHECK. I SEE RHONDA ALREADY SEATED AT THE CORNER TABLE. SHE SITS READING THE MENU IN AN EVENING DRESS CUT LOW ENOUGH TO MAKE IT INTERESTING.


THE COORDINATES I'VE GOT TO RICK LOGAN'S HIDEAWAY ARE VAGUE AT BEST. I CAN SEE NOTHING FROM THE AIR SO I SET MY SPEEDER DOWN AS CLOSE TO THE COORDINATES AS POSSIBLE AND CLIMB OUT AND TAKE A LOOK AROUND. THE CENTRAL AMERICAN JUNGLE IS AN OPPRESIVE, HOT, STEAMING MASS OF GREEN VEGETATION. I FIND MY WAY TO A NARROW PATHWAY THAT LEADS THROUGH A SWARM OF TALL TREES AND THICK UNDERGROWTH. IT'S THE ONLY PATHWAY AROUND SO IT'S THE BEST BET I'VE GOT...

THE LOCATION OF THE PYRAMID IS NEAR LOGAN'S HUT. I WALK UP THE JUNGLE PATHWAY WHICH GRADUALLY WORKS ITS WAY UP TO THE TOP OF A HILL. I HEAR THE SOUND OF SCURRYING IGUANAS. I APPROACH ONE TOO CLOSELY AND HE STANDS ON HIS BACK LEGS, HISSES AND RUNS AWAY. AS I TURN TO WATCH IT, I SEE THE PYRAMID THROUGH THE TREES FOR THE FIRST TIME. STANDING OVER 300 FEET FROM THE APEX TO THE VALLEY FLOOR, THE PYRAMID SHAPED STRUCTURE IS ENORMOUS. I MOVE OFF THE MAIN PATH AND CREEP THROUGH THE VEGETATION TO AVOID BEING SEEN. AS I APPROACH THE STRUCTURE I STAY HIDDEN BEHIND AN ANCIENT MAYAN WALL. I CAN SEE GUARDS AND PERSONNEL MOVING FROM INSIDE THE TEMPLE TO A HUGE CRAFT GETTING READY FOR TAKEOFF. GETTING ON THE SPACECRAFT IS MY GOAL, BUT IT LOOKS UNATTAINABLE...






NOT MY FIRST MISTAKE BUT POSSIBLY ONE OF THE BIGGEST. INSIDE THE OFFICE I'M IMMEDIATELY THROTTLED BY TWO GOONS THE SIZE OF GARBAGE TRUCKS. AFTER SUFFICIENTLY CRUSHING MY LARYNX, I DROP TO THE FLOOR. THEN ONE OF THEM SLAMS MY HEAD INTO A DESK AND I DRIFT AWAY. AS I COME TO I FIND MYSELF FACING NONE OTHER THAN BIG DICK CASTRO. SOMEHOW HE KNOWS WHO I AM AND WHAT I'M AFTER. IT'S OBVIOUS HE'S AFTER SOMETHING FROM ME...


THE PLANT WAS THE 1ST NUCLEAR FACILITY ON MARS, AND LIKE SO MANY OF THE EARLY MARTIAN CONSTRUCTIONS, IT IS GREY, DRAB AND MASSIVE. CONSTRUCTED MOSTLY OF TITANIUM, IT IS ACTUALLY MADE OF PIECES OF THE GREAT CARGO SHIPS THAT BROUGHT THE 1ST BUILDING MATERIALS TO MARS. EVERYTHING WAS CANNIBALIZED FROM THOSE EARLY MISSIONS.


LIKE THE ANCIENT WALLED CITY OF PETRA, THE MONUMENT OF THE TEMPLE IS CARVED DIRECTLY FROM THE TOWERING WALL OF MARTIAN GRANITE. THE SIX ORNATE, CARVED PILLARS STAND BELOW ME GUARDING THE ENTRANCE TO THIS THE HOLIEST PLACE OF THE ANCIENTS. A HUGE METAL GATE HINGED TO A MASSIVE COURTYARD WALL THAT SURROUNDS THE TEMPLE PROTECTING IT FROM INTRUDERS, BLASPHEMERS AND MARTIAN PARTY ANIMALS.

THE AEROBIC INSTRUCTORS APARTMENT IS VERY TASTEFUL. THE ROOM IS SURROUNDED ON THREE SIDES BY SLEEK LEATHER COUCHES. THIS IS DEFINITELY NOT THE KIND OF FURNITURE YOU GET FROM PLACES THAT ADVERTISE ON BUS BENCHES. EVERYTHING IS CUSTOM, MADE AND TAILORED TO FIT UNOBTRUSIVELY INTO THE LARGE SPACIOUS ROOM. THE CEILING TOWERS 10 FEET FROM THE FLOOR AND RECESSED LIGHT FIXTURES GLOW WARMLY OVERHEAD.

DR. LAWRENCE BARKLEY'S OFFICE IS FILLED WITH ANTIQUES AND EXPENSIVE FURNITURE. BARKLEY'S SECRETARY TELLS ME THE DOCTOR WILL BE HERE SHORTLY...
THE SITE WHERE THE MARTIAN COLONISTS WERE MASSACRED BY THE STANTON EXPEDITION IS STILL PRESERVED. I WALK SLOWLY BY BLOWN OUT HOMES AND PLAYGROUNDS, AS THE WIND WHISTLES EERILY THROUGH THE TWISTED WRECKAGE...

MICHELLE BLOODWORTH TOLD ME THAT NATHAN HAS A SMALL MINING OPERATION NEAR THE MARINARIS VALLEY. I ENTER A SMALL DOME AT THE BOTTOM OF A DEEP CANYON. SOMETHING IS SERIOUSLY WRONG...
LUCKY I PICKED UP THAT REBREATHER, I CAN LAST FOR A WHILE. THE WALK BACK TO A BASE WILL BE LONG BUT NOT IMPOSSIBLE.
THE COORDINATES FOR THOMAS DANGERFIELD ARE NEAR THE MOUTH OF A LARGE CAVERN, ABOUT TWO KILOMETERS FROM THE POWER PLANT. I ENTER THE OPENING AND FIND A SET OF STAIRS WINDING DOWN INSIDE THE MOUNTAIN. THE STAIRS SEEM ENDLESS BUT EVENTUALLY I FIND MYSELF IN A NARROW CORRIDOR...
NOT A GOOD MOVE. THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND ME.
WHEN ALEXIS AND I COME TO, WE FIND OURSELVES IN A SMALL CHAMBER SURROUNDED BY A MESH FORCE FIELD. I CAN STICK MY FINGER THROUGH THE MESH BUT THAT'S ABOUT IT. A DERANGED, OLD MAN COMES OUT OF A BOOTH. HE WALKS UP TO US LOOKING LIKE THE CAT WHO SWALLOWED THE CANARY.













THE WORK ADDRESS FOR ROCKWELL BACHE LOOKS MORE LIKE A HOME. IT IS A LARGE SOLID HOUSE WITH LAVENDER BRICK WALLS AND WHITE STONE TRIM. I WALK IN AND AM GREETED BY A YOUNG PRETTY FACE WITH A NICE SMILE. SHE ASKS IF I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT. I TELL HER WHY I'M HERE AND SHE LEADS ME INTO BACHE'S OFFICE. IT'S OBVIOUS WHY MARSHALL ALEXANDER HIRED THIS GUY TO BE PART OF HIS CORPORATE BRAINTRUST...
I WALK INTO THE OLD DILAPIDATED POLICE STATION CROSS THE RECEPTION ROOM TO A DULLY LIGHTED INNER CORRIDOR, AND PASS DOWN THE CORRIDOR TO A FROSTED GLASS DOOR AT ITS FAR END. I OPEN THE FROSTED GLASS DOOR AND WALK INTO AN OFFICE WHERE A BIG OLIVE SKINNED MAN WITH A TIRED OVAL FACE UNDER A MATT OF THIN HAIR DOTTED WITH DANDRUFF SITS BEHIND AN IMMENSE DESK ON WHICH BALES OF PAPER ARE HEAPED. MAC'S A TRUE SAN FRANCISCO FLATFOOT. HIS BIGGEST CLAIM TO FAME IS THAT AN OLD RELATIVE OF HIS USED TO BE ON A POLICE SHOW ABOUT SAN FRANCISCO, SOMEBODY SAID MAC LOOKS A LOT LIKE HIM.
THE ADDRESS OF JOCQUES SPARROW IS A THREE STORY WHITE STUCCO AND GLASS BUILDING DESIGNED AFTER THE WAR TO BE THE AVANT-GARDE OF MODERN ARCHITECTURE. THEY FAILED, IT LOOKS TOO SQUARE AND THE WINDOWS NEED WASHING. INSIDE IT'S JUST AS DANK AND STICKY AS OUTSIDE. I FIND A DIRECTORY ON THE WALL. JOCQUES SPARROW'S OFFICE IS ON THE THIRD FLOOR. I RIDE UP THE ELEVATOR WHICH SMELLS SIMILAR TO A CAT MARKING ITS TERRITORY. AT THE END OF THE HALLWAY I SEE LETTERING, 'JOCQUES SPARROW', ON PEBBLED GLASS. I KNOCK, NO ANSWER. I TRY THE KNOB BUT IT'S LOCKED.
NORA DESMOND'S HOUSE IS NOT SO MUCH. IT IS SMALLER THAN THE PALACE OF VERSAILLE AND PROBABLY HAS FEWER WINDOWS THAN THE NEW YORK TRADE CENTER.
I WALK TO THE SIDE ENTRANCE AND PRESS A BELL. SOMEWHERE A SET OF CHIMES MADE A DEEP MELLOW SOUND.
A MAN IN A STRIPED VEST AND GILT BUTTONS OPENS THE DOOR. I GIVE HIM MY CREDENTIALS AND TELL HIM WHY I'M HERE. HE LEAVES FOR A MINUTE AND RETURNES. 'MR. MURPHY, IF YOU WILL COME THIS WAY, PLEASE.'
WE GO DOWN A HALL. IT'S A VERY QUIET HALL. WE TURN A CORNER AND THERE IS MORE HALL.
THE BUTLER REACHES A DOOR AND KNOCKS.
THE DOOR OPENS AND THERE STANDS MS. NORA DESMOND. I REMEMBER GAZING AT HER IN FILMS WHEN I WAS A TYKE, BUT SEEING HER NOW IS SOMETHING OF A SHOCK. SHE HAS BEEN WORKED OVER, MORE THAN A FEW TIMES, WITH A PLASTIC SURGEONS SCALPEL BUT HER FACE STILL LOOKS OLD ENOUGH TO BE HER OWN MOTHER'S. SHE IS HAVING A DIFFICULT TIME GETTING HER EYES TO FOCUS, AND BY THE FRAGRANCE, IT'S OBVIOUS SHE WAS SLOSHED. I THINK TO MYSELF THAT DRUNKS OFTEN LET THEIR GUARD DOWN. IF I AM CAREFUL WITH HER, SHE JUST MIGHT BE LOOSE LIPPED ENOUGH TO TELL ME SOMETHING USEFUL...
GUY CALLABERO, OWNER OF DEFUNCT GALACTIC PICTURES AND MOVIE PRODUCER, HAD A FACE YOU COULDN'T FORGET. GUY HAD GOTTEN INTO SHOWBIZ IN A TRAVELING CARNIVAL AS ONE OF THE SIDESHOW ACTS, AND HAD MOVED DOWN A NOTCH TO MOVIE PRODUCER. HE WAS A NATURAL AT B EXPLOITATION MOVIES LIKE THE RED PLANET MANGLER, RETURN OF THE RED PLANT MANGLER AND THE RED PLANET MANGLER VS. BENJI.
FERRIS COLLETT IS A MAN WHO KNOWS HOW TO GET THINGS DONE... AN ARROGANT TECHNOCRAT, COLLETT IS NOT A MAN TO CROSS. A PERFECTIONIST, HE HAS FIRED MORE MEN THAN MOST PEOPLE KNOW. OFF PLANT FERRIS IS KNOWN AS A FIERY TEMPERED, HARD DRINKING, WOMANIZING SPONGEHEAD. THE WORLD CAN REST EASY, WITH FERRIS COLLETT AROUND.

CHANTALL VARGAS' ADDRESS IS THE HITCHCOCK BUILDING, A HUGE URBAN TOWER NEAR MY OFFICE DOWNTOWN. THESE TOWERS ARE SELF SUFFICIENT LIVING SPACES THAT ALLOW THE RESIDENTS OF THE BUILDING TO AVOID THE DECAY AND VIOLENCE OF THE INNER CITIES. I RING THE BELL AND A TIRED BUT STRIKING WOMAN WITH DEEP HUNGRY EYES AND LONG UNBRUSHED BRUNETTE HAIR ANSWERS THE DOOR. SHE'S YOUNG BUT THERE ARE SIGNS OF HARD AND FAST LIVING. SOMETHING RINGS FAMILIAR IN THOSE FEATURES. THEN IT SMACKS ME, SHE'S THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN I'VE SEEN DANCING THROUGH THE CAMERA LENS FROM MY OFFICE WINDOW. I FEEL THE BLOOD RUSH TO MY FACE. GEEZ! I HOPE SHE DOESN'T RECOGNIZE ME.
THE AEROBICS INSTRUCTOR IS A WOMAN IN HER EARLY 20'S. HER BLONDE HAIR IS BOBBED SHORT GIVING HER FACE A SOMEWHAT BOYISH APPEARANCE. BUT ANY RESEMBLANCE TO A BOY STOPPED THERE, SHE IS WEARING A SKIN TIGHT LEOTARD, REVEALING LONG AND SLEEKLY WONDERFUL LEGS. ONE LOOK AT HER AND I FEEL A SUDDEN URGE TO EXERCISE...
LAWRENCE BARKLEY LOOKS LIKE HE COULD USE A LITTLE OF HIS OWN MEDICINE. HE HAS A HUGE FOREHEAD TOPPED WITH A BALDING PATE. HIS PROTRUDING BROWN AND HEAVY EYEBROWS, ALONG WITH A POINTING HEAD, DOESN'T EXACTLY INSPIRE CONFIDENCE IN HIS WOULD BE PATIENTS. HOWEVER, BARKLEY IS THE BEST IN THE BUSINESS. HE MAY RESEMBLE CRO MAGNON MAN, BUT UNDER THAT THICK SKULL AND BEHIND THOSE GOOFY EYES, LIES ONE OF THE FINEST MINDS ON MARS.
BIG DICK CASTRO HAS THE MOST ENORMOUS HEAD I HAVE EVER SEEN ON A CUBAN. TOTALLY BALD, MIDDLE 30'S, SO IT'S FAR TOO LATE FOR HIM TO LEARN TO DRESS HIMSELF. HE SPORTS AN ORANGE POLKA DOT SHIRT AND TIE, SOMEONE HAD USED AS A NAPKIN, AND A WHITE, RAYON SPORTS JACKET. HE IS EVERYTHING YOU'D EXPECT FROM A MAN WITH A BIG HEAD NAMED DICK. HIS TEETH ARE NICOTINE STAINED FROM ONE TOO MANY HAVANAS AND HIS ENGLISH WAS JUST SLIGHTLY BETTER THAN MY SPANISH. BIG DICK'S GREAT UNCLE, FIDEL, WAS THE TOP COMMIE IN CUBA, WHICH MEANT HE GREW UP ON A CRUST OF BREAD AND DIRTY WATER. THIS HAD MADE DICK TOUGH AS NAILS AND MEANER THAN A RABID SKUNK. HE'D GOTTEN THE GIST OF CAPITALISM AND NOTHING WOULD STAND IN HIS WAY.

DEACON HAWKE MAY HAVE BEEN A HIGH PRIESTESS, BUT SHE LOOKS MORE LIKE A GODDESS. IN HER LATE 20'S, SHE IS TALL, ALMOST 6 FEET. HER HAIR IS VERY WHITE AND AS THICK AS ROPE, IT TRAILS DOWN HER SHOULDERS AND BACK. HER SENSUALITY IS SO INTENSE, I CAN PRACTICALLY FEEL HER HEART BEATING FROM WHERE I AM. SHE IS CLAD IN A SHIMMERING RED CEREMONIAL GOWN, A STRIKING CONTRAST AGAINST HER UNBLEMISHED SKIN. LIKE FINE PROCELAIN, HER SKIN REFLECTS THE LIGHT, MAKING HER ALMOST LUMINOUS. HER RED LIPS ARE VERY FULL AND HER AZURE BLUE EYES GLISTEN AND THROUGH THEM TO THE VERY DEPTHS OF HER, I SEE A FIRE SMOULDERING, SMOKY AND HOT.
ALEXIS ALEXANDER STANDS THERE NERVOUSLY, STARRING AT ME WITH HUGE FAWN LIKE EYES. HER HAIR IS THE GOLD OF OLD PAINTINGS AND IS TOUSLED ENOUGH, BUT NOT TOO MUCH. HER FACE IS STRONG BUT BEAUTIFUL. SHE HAS A FULL SET OF CURVES WHICH NOBODY HAD BEEN ABLE TO IMPROVE ON. SHE IS FRIGHTENED BUT IT LOOKED AS IF SHE COULD SMILE EASILY. HER EYES ARE CRYSTAL BLUE AND CLEAR; HER MOUTH IS LARGE AND SENSUAL...

THE ADDRESS FOR MICHELLE BLOODWORTH RESEMBLED A RUSTING STEEL BOX MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE. THERE IS A SMALL PORCH AND ON IT A LONELY WOODEN ROCKER. I RAP ON THE CORRODED METAL DOOR. A BLOWSY WOMAN BLOWING HER NOSE PASSES THE WINDOW AND OPENS THE DOOR. HER FACE IS GRAY AND PUFFY. HER EYES ARE BLOODSHOT, TIRED AND SUSPICIOUS. IT'S OBVIOUS SHE'S UPSET. SHE OPENS HER MOUTH AND REVEALS ROTTING YELLOW TEETH. 'WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?' SHE SAYS. 'I'M A DETECTIVE. I'D LIKE SOME INFORMATION.' MICHELLE BLOODWORTH IMMEDIATELY BEGINS TO SOB. 'I'M SO WORRIED ABOUT NATHAN. I KNOW HE'S IN SERIOUS TROUBLE.'
OFF A DIRTY STREET, DOWN A SHORT ALLEY I FIND THE ADDRESS FOR BRAD ERICSON. I PUSH THE BUZZER. NO ANSWER. I KNOCK ON THE DOOR FOR A WHILE AND A LIGHT GOES ON. THE DOOR SLIDES OPEN AND A FIGURE STANDS QUIETLY STARING AT ME. HIS LOOKS EVEN SHOCK ME A BIT. MAYBE HE'D BEEN STRUCK BY SOMETHING THROWN FROM A PASSING AIRCRAFT, BECAUSE BRAD ERICSON APPEARS IN THIS LIGHT TO BE SIX FEET OF BREATHING, WALKING VOMIT...
LOWELL PERCIVAL IS MR. BUSINESS, WITH ALL THE WARMTH OF A TAX ACCOUNTANT. DRESSED IN A 3-PIECE SUIT THAT WOULD COST MOST MEN 3 MONTHS WAGES, HE SCOWLS WARILY. PERCIVAL IS IN HIS MID 50'S BUT HIS FACE LOOKS OLDER, HEAVILY LINED, AND FLUSHED, WITH WIRE RIM GLASSES AND GREYING, NEATLY TRIMMED BEARD AND MUSTACHE. THE MAN IS THE EPITOME OF A COLD, CALCULATING SCROOGE.
BRADLEY ERICSON HAD GIVEN ME A HOT TIP ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF COOPER BRADBURY. BRAD HAD TOLD ME ABOUT AN ALLEY IN FREAKTOWN, NEAR THE RADIOACTIVE SLAG HEAP.
STEPPING FROM BEHIND A STREET LAMP, BRADBURY IS THE KING OF FREAKS. RADIATION HAD DONE ITS JOB ON THIS GUY. HIS HUGE CONCAVE FOREHEAD IS COVERED WITH THE GREEN FUNGUS THAT GROWS FROM THE THOUSANDS OF TINY HOLES THAT WERE LEFT IN HIS HEAD AFTER HIS HAIR DROPPED OUT. HIS NOSE IS LIKE A SOWS, YOU COULD STARE STRAIGHT INTO HIS HEAD THROUGH IT. HIS EYES, ARE WIDE SET AND MONGOLOID IN APPEARANCE. HIS TEETH WOULD LOOK GOOD ON A 12 YEAR OLD HORSE, IF HE HADN'T BEEN MISSING THE FRONT TWO.

I STUMBLE INTO THE SMOKE FILLED, CHEAP BAR ROOM. IT'S PACKED TO THE GILLS WITH THE SCUM OF MARTIAN SOCIETY. IT'S THE KIND OF PLACE WHERE PEOPLE DISAPPEAR, GET STABBED, SHOT OR ARE FORCED TO BUY LIFE INSURANCE AT OUTRAGEOUS PRICES. THEN I SPOT SOMEONE FAMILIAR. IT'S LARRY HAMMOND AND HIS BROTHER DARRELL. LARRY AND DARRELL ARE INSEPARABLE; MAINLY BECAUSE THEY SHARE THE SAME SET OF SHOULDERS. I WORKED WITH THE BOYS ON THE MEAN STREETS CASE A FEW YEARS BACK. THE YEARS HAD NOT BEEN KIND TO LARRY AND DARRELL. LARRY IS A BRILLIANT COMPUTER SCIENTIST WITH AN I.Q. OVER 300. BUT DARRELL IS JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.





INSIDE THE SHIPPING CRATE LOOKS LIKE AN EXCELLENT PLACE TO HIDE, BUT IT TURNS OUT TO BE MORE THAN THAT. ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, THE SMUGGLERS CARRY THE CRATE INSIDE THE WAITING SPACECRAFT.
THE FLIGHT TO MARS IS RELATIVELY UNEVENTFUL SINCE I'M LOCKED INSIDE THE CARGO HOLD OF THE SHIP FOR SEVERAL WEEKS.