Red Witch of Mercury
By EMMETT McDOWELL
Death was Jaro Moynahan's stock in trade, and
every planet had known his touch. But now, on
Mercury, he was selling his guns into the
weirdest of all his exploits—gambling his life
against the soft touch of a woman's lips.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
On the stage of Mercury Sam's Garden, a tight-frocked, limber-hipped,red-head was singing "The Lady from Mars." The song was a rollicking,ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilotsand army officers who frequented the garden. The girl rendered it withsuch gusto that the audience burst into a roar of applause.
She bent her head in acknowledgment so that her bronze red hair felldown about her face. There was perspiration on her upper lip andtemples. Her crimson mouth wore a fixed smile. Her eyes were frightened.
The man, who had accompanied the singer on the piano, sat at the footof the stage, his back to the crowded tables. He did not look up atthe singer but kept his pale, immature face bent over the keys, whilehis fingers lightly, automatically picked out the tune. Sweat trickleddown the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back.Without looking up, he said: "Have you spotted him?" His voice waspitched to reach the singer alone.
The girl, with an almost imperceptible gesture, shook her head.
The night was very hot; but then it is always hot on Mercury, thenewest, the wildest, the hottest of Earth's frontiers. Fans spacedabout the garden's walls sluggishly stirred the night air, while themen and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, thepale green wine of Mercury. Only the native waiters, the enigmatic,yellow-eyed Mercurians, seemed unaffected by the heat. They didn'tsweat at all.
Up on the stage the singer was about to begin another number when shestiffened.
"Here he is," she said to the pianist without moving her lips.
The pianist swung around on his stool, lifted his black eyes to thegate leading to the street.
Just within the entrance, a tall, thin man was standing. He looked likea gaunt gray wolf loitering in the doorway. His white duraloes suithung faultlessly. His black hair was close-cropped, his nose thin andaquiline. For a moment he studied the crowded garden before making hisway to a vacant table.
"Go on," said the pianist in a flat voice.
The red-head shivered. Stepping from the stage she picked her waythrough the tables until she came to the one occupied by the newcomer.
"May I join you?" she asked in a low voice.
The man arose. "Of course. I was expecting you. Here, sit down." Hepulled out a chair, motioned for the waiter. The Mercurian, his yellowincurious eyes like two round topazes, sidled up. "Bring us a bottleof Latonka from the Veederman region, well iced." The waiter slippedaway.
"So," said the red-head; "you have come. I did not think you would bein time." Her hands were clenched in her lap. The knuckles were white.
The man said nothing.
"I did not want to call you in, Jaro Moynahan." It was the first timeshe had used his name. "You have the reputation of being unpredictable.I don't trust you, but since...."
She stopped as the waiter placed glasses on the table and deftly pouredthe pale green wine. The man, Jaro Moynahan, raised his glass.
"Here's to the revoluti