The Mars Monopoly - Jerry Sohl, ebook, Temp
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find your Fortune in the sky-by permission of
The Mars Monopoly
by Jerry Sohl
ONE
October 10, 2026
1
the intercom winked to life and Bert Schaun caught the red glow out of the corner of his eye.
"Bert," it said as he took the cigar Out of his mouth and turned in his swivel chair to depress the switch.
"Yes."
"There's a Stinker around here some'eres."
"There ought to be. This is Mars, remember?"
"I'm not kiddin', Bert. I mean right here on the lot."
"You sure, Sam?"
"Sure?" There was a laugh. "If you was standin' where I was a minute ago, you wouldn't be askin' that question."
"Okay. I'll be right down."
Bert sat a moment, his finger still on the lever, feeling a vague uneasiness. An alien wasn't using very good sense
coming to Seven like that. He remembered what happened to the last one and knew he couldn't let a thing like that
happen again.
Well, there was one thing about them: they were easy to spot if the wind was blowing in the right direction.
Bert sighed, put his ledger to one side, and got to his feet. As he did so, he glanced out of the open door and saw a
young couple coming up the walk.
A young couplel
He started, finding the sight hard to believe. There weren't any people like these on Mars!
They were at the door now, standing at the jamb like visions from Earth: fresh, sparkling-eyed, smiling, an<J, it seemed,
a little embarrassed. The girl was dressed in a frothy thing that clung to her like a glove and emphasized
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
her curves. Bert had become so inured to the practical clothing of Mars he found it difficult to take his eyes off it. The
latest Earth style? It was white, neat, and without a smudge. When he did manage to look at her face, he was held by
its youthfulness, the bright green eyes, and the strange tint of lipstick. An affectation?
The man was something from an advertisement for men's wear, clad in the latest thing for tennis. Odd, how styles for
men never changed, Bert thought. The youngester was well-formed, muscular, and looked the picture of health.
"Can I help you?" Bert asked, reluctantly putting in force what he knew would annihilate the tableau.
"Are you Mr. Schaun—Bert Schaun?" the youth asked uncertainly, advancing through the door. The girl held his
hand and came forward with him.
"One and the same," Bert said, smiling and coming around the desk. As he did so, he caught the full force of scent.
The young people did, too, and winced.
"There's an alien around here somewhere," Bert explained. "Don't let it bother you. I was just going out to look for it."
"I—I've heard about them," the girl said, looking around as if she expected one to creep out from behind the desk.
"It's not in here," Bert said. "It's out on the lot somewhere."
"They tell me," the youth went on in a strained voice, "that you buy and sell spacers."
"That's right. Bert Schaun: Never Undersold. Guaranteed OK Used Spacers. Biggest dealer on Mars, as a matter of
fact. Didn't you see the signs out there?"
"You mean there are other dealers on Mars?" the girl asked in surprise.
"Well . . ." Bert grinned. "Maybe there will be some day.. Let us put it that way. Were you folks thinking of acquiring a
spacer? If you are, you've come to the right place."
"Well," the young man said, "not exactly. I—"
THE MARS MONOPOLY
7
"We're stranded," the girl blurted out.
"I think I'd better explain," the young man said, giving the girl a let-me-handle-this look. "My name's Dean. Spencer
Dean. And this is my wife, Pamela. We were on our honeymoon—"
"We thought it would be fun to come to Mars—"
"Let me tell it, Pam," Spencer admonished. "You see, we took her father's yacht for the honeymoon. We didn't think
he'd care, since we were getting married anyway. And we thought we'd land here and do a little sight-seeing and then
go back."
"We didn't count on father," Pamela said. "He's disowned me."
"We don't know why, except maybe he didn't like the idea of our just taking the yacht without telling him."
"Oh, father's always had it in for you, Spence. Maybe if he hadn't tried to stop it I'd never have married you."
"So you came to Mars in a yacht on your honeymoon," Bert prompted.
"That's right, Mr. Schaun," Spencer said. "And now we can't get back."
"Why?"
"Father's issued orders."
"I see." Her father must be a big man to do that, he thought. And that explained why she was dressed as she was. And
a space yacht—of all things! How out of place it must look beside all the stubby ore haulers on Mars!
"We have no fuel, and no money, no nothing," Spencer said.
"And you've come to sell the yacht, is that it?"
"Yes, sir," Spencer said militantly.
"You've got title, of course?"
"Title?" Spencer looked bewildered.
"Surely you know what a title is!"
"Oh, yes, of course. I—I just hadn't thought of that."
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
"The ship's in the family," Pamela said. "I guess I have a right to sell it, title or not."
Bert smiled. "I'm afraid not, Miss—Mrs. Dean. I'd have no protection, don't you see?"
"Yes, I see." The girl was crestfallen.
"And besides, I don't know what I'd do with a yacht. That's probably the last ship I could sell on Mars."
"It's a wonderful ship," Spencer said. "Room for more than a score of passengers, kitchen, bar, recreation room—"
"I'm not denying it's a wonderful ship," Bert said gently. "I simply couldn't buy it."
Spencer gave his bride a woebegone look and she answered it with an equally mournful face. Bert was amused. They
had a problem all right, but it wasn't that tragic.
"You don't have enought fuel to get home, is that it?"
"We left Earth without even checking," Spence said. "We were lucky to get here. The gauge read empty when we
landed."
It would take plenty of fuel to move a thing like a yacht back to Earth. And fuel was not exactly cheap, considering the
length of the run and the size of the ship.
"Don't you kids have enough dough to take a frieghter home? There's always one leaving over at Four."
"We don't have a thing," Spencer said, shamefaced.
"You mean we should leave the
Pamela
here?" the girl asked, incredulous. "We couldn't do a thing like that!"
"The
Pamela?
Did your father name it for you?"
"Yes, he did, the stinkerl Oh!" She put her hand to her open mouth. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"I know what you mean," Bert sighed, walked back to the desk and sat on it, lighting his cigar. "I don't know what to
tell you."
"I just couldn't leave the ship with
anybody,"
Pamela said,
And I know what you're thinking, Bert thought. Well, he'd always wanted a space yacht. Or had he? He chuckled.
THE MARS MONOPOLY
9
"What's so funny?" Spencer asked.
"Well, I'll tell you what 111 do," Bert said. "Ill advance you the money so you can go home on a freighter, and I'll take
care of your yacht for you, Pamela, until your father sends somebody up after it. You'd better not leave on Seven's
landing pattern, though. They charge ten dollars a day for that. There's room on the lot." He gestured toward the open
window. "It runs back as far as you can see. I'll keep my eye on it and be responsible for it, if you like."
"But—but how will we ever pay you back if father really had disowned us?" Pamela quavered.
"Ill see that Mr. Shaun gets paid," Spencer said firmly. "I'll see to it somehow. And that's a promise, Mr. Schaun."
"Good boy," Bert said, moving behind the desk. "Ill bet you will." He opened a drawer, withdrew a cash box, unlocked
it and counted out their fare, adding several bills for incidentals. "There," he said, passing it along the desk top, "that
will get you to Earth all right. But there won't be any frills on the way."
"We've had enough frills," Pamela said.
"From now on it's going to be up to me," Spencer said seriously. "And there won't be any frills for a long time."
"I don't know how to thank you," Pamela said, suddenly brightening. "You've been swell, Mr. Schaun."
"Yes, we sure appreciate this, sir," Spencer said, offering his hand.
"Forget it," Bert said, taking the hand. "I was young once myself." Thirty-two must seem an awfully advanced age for
them, he thought. "Will you do me the favor of bringing the ship over, Mr. Dean?"
"That I will, sir. Right away."
They turned toward the door and as they did so the faint aroma of an alien came through the window. Got to get out
on that right away, Bert thought.
"Thanks again," Pamela said, turning and smiling.
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
"It's
all right," Bert said. Then he had a sudden thought. "Say, who is your father? I'll need to know when he sends
somebody after the ship."
"His name is McAllister," Pamela said. "Thornton McAllister."
Bert jerked in his chair at the name, stared at her.
"Whom?
Whom
did you say?"
"McAllister. Thornton McAllister, Mr. Schaun."
"Oh. . . ."
"Good-bye, Mr. Schaun."
"Good-bye. . . ."
He watched them go: Thornton McAllister's daughter and the man she had just married, a likable young man named
Dean, Spencer Dean; and he was filled with the wonder of life, of chance meeting, of events of other years. . . .
Thornton McAllister's daughter!
Once there had been two McAllisters: Thornton and Roger.
An old fury started to envelop him and he was moved to call the young couple back, but he did not.
Didn't she know? How could she
not
know?
Or maybe she did. It
was
possible.
And he grimaced at the thought.
Still, what difference did it make? It was so long ago and she had probably forgotten the name. A year isn't long, really,
except to young people, and what happens to you to make it seem long.
It seemed an eternity ago.
Actually, it was a little more than a year.
That other time was September 4, 2025.
TWO
September 4, 2025
day of the 'Round the World ClassicI
Two rows of giant flags, one on either side of the takeoff apron, fluttered in the light September breeze.
Fifty-six ships, contenders from a starting field of more than two hundred, were spaced equidistant from each other on
the concrete, their noses pointed proudly heavenward, the early afternoon sun glinting from polished places.
Pennants and banners flew from buildings around the starting area and were carried by enthusiasts and rooters, a
hundred thousand of them cramming the area, most of them on the apron out among the ships.
Hawkers sold balloons in the shape of jetcraft; concessions selling pennants, hot dogs, root beer, a half dozen flavors
of lotofiz, ice cream, and candy bars, had more business than could be handled.
It was a perfect day for the running of the Twenty-Seventh Annual 'Round the World competition.
A TV crew was at work below the
Skysweep,
ship number 129. Rope held by workmen kept the crowd around the ship
from overflowing into the actual scene of the interview.
"Tell me," the announcer with the red bow tie said to the man in coveralls leaning against the ladder to the ship, "how
many races have you been in before?"
Bert Schaun, pilot of the
Skysweep,
frowned thoughtfully, then said, "Unless one of them got away from me
somewhere, I think this will be the tenth."
"You've never won?"
"I've been second twice, third three times."
"Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Is that it?"
11
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THE, MARS MONOPOLY
The crowd laughed good-naturedly.
"Something like that," Bert said.
The announcer looked toward the dolly and nodded his head slightly. It began to roll forward for a close-up of the two
men.
"With all that experience, you ought to be able to win this year, don't you think, Mr. Shaun?"
"I'll try, but there's a lot of stiff competition."
"What kind of a ship do you have?"
"It's a Powers-Yaus. Not the fanciest. But it's plenty fast. Worked it over myself."
"I've heard the best ship in the race is McAllister's."
Bert nodded grudgingly. "That Jaffenen job is a good one, all right. But it set him back plenty."
The announcer chuckled. "But you're going to give him a run for his money, eh?"
"I'll do my best. Have you talked to McAllister yet?"
"We were over there a little while ago. Tell me, Mr. Schaun, what will you do with the hundred thousand dollars if you
win it?"
Bert Schaun pushed his pilot's cap back on his head and grinned. "You fellows ask me that each year. And I always
tell you I don't want to think about it. Once I get it in my pocket, I may have an answer for you."
"Maybe we'll be seeing you after the race."
"I hope so."
"Well, we've got to move on now, Mr. Schaun. Good luck to you, sir."
"Thanks."
The announcer moved away, the dolly was rolled back, and Bert put his cold cigar back in his mouth and went into the
ship.
Well, at least
that
was over.
He clanged the metal door closed behind him.
THE MARS MONOPOLY
13
: Operations was the scene of frantic activity. The build-Ing, with its open glass wall facing the takeoff apron, buzzed
-with static, bells, the click of machines giving the weather reports and checking co-ordinates in other parts of the
world. Pilots raced in and out with last-minute requests or errands or orders. Uniformed men at the doors kept the
curious out. Other uniformed men circulated around die inside, alert for any trouble.
Lights blinked on a giant board above the open wall, indicating the changing odds on the racers. The information came
from the wagering center across the apron where people stood in block-long lines to place their bets.
Schaun was favored to win two to one. McAllister was second with three to one. The last man on the list was Agnew
with one hundred and eleven to one.
Thornton McAllister glared at the policeman at the door, showed his identification, then pushed past him into the
building, taking long strides because he was a big man. His hair was jet black beneath his black hat, and there was a
flamboyant touch to his mustache that comes only from years of cultivation.
There was no mistaking where he was going. His destination was straight across the floor to the desk of the Chief of
the Takeoff Pattern. If people had not moved out of his way, they might have been bowled over like tenpins.
At the edge of the open floor, his hands gripping the rail of the waist-high partition, his face a mottled red, McAllister
thundered, "Mr. Duggan!"
Patrick Duggan looked up from
a.
sheaf of papers he was thumbing through. When he saw who it was, he jumped to
his feet. "Why, Mr. McAllister!"
"It's rotten, sir. Perfectly rotten."
"Sir?" Duggan's eyebrows raised as did the eyebrows of several people in the vicinity.
"You put Roger where he is on purpose!"
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
"Your son," Duggan said quickly, "picked his place himself. He asked to be put smack dab in the center of the
pattern."
The elder McAllister snorted. "He must have taken leave of his senses then." He threw his hands in the air. "Howll he
level off at thirty miles? There!!! be ships all around him. He should have taken a fringe berth. Preferably one on the
east side. Why didn't you tell him that, Mr. Duggan?"
"It shouldn't make any difference—"
"Difference! Why, it will make all the difference in the world!" McAllister's jowls quivered with rage.
"Not if he's first, Mr. McAllister," Duggan said calmly. "You don't think he'll be anything else, do you?"
"Eh?" What's that?" McAllister's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that, young man?"
"I mean it doesn't make any difference where the other ships are if he's first. Hell have the field to himself. He won't
have to worry. After all, he does have the best ship, you know."
"That may be," McAllister said, unwilling to be soothed. "But you said
if
he's first."
"We're all pulling for him, sir," Duggan said, smiling. "After all, it isn't as if this were his first trip around."
McAllister nodded grudgingly. "Well, Roger
is a.
fair pilot. That plus the ship ought to mean something."
Lanzer Murcheson, Chief of Operations, wearing a welcome smile, approached the rail and offered his hand to
McAllister.
"Thornton McAllister!" he said warmly. "I was hoping you'd come to Operations. You'll be our guest, won't you? We'll
have it all on the big screen here and there won't be too many inside."
One moment it was quiet, the sun flooding the area about the ships, now devoid of people. A bird flew in a long ,curve
THE MARS MONOPOLY
15
over the Operations building and landed atop ship number twenty-three. The second hand of the big clock at the end
of the field completed its circle to sixty. Somewhere deep within the Operations building a relay clicked.
The next moment there was thunder, the roar of fifty-six reactorjets splitting the air at the same time. It would have
ruptured the brain of anyone within a few hundred feet. But no one was that near. The hundred thousand people were
in buildings and shelters about Simmons Field, watching the takeoff on television or seeing it through reinforced
windows.
The bird on ship number twenty-three was still there, its claws still gripping the scored nose of the ship.
But it was dead.
As the ship shuddered, the bird's claws lost their death-grip and it fell to the blackened concrete below. Atop the ship
it had suffered the indignity of death, and now it suffered the additional indignity of cremation.
The ships rose as one, slowly, then a little faster, then swiftly. Then they screamed high into the air.
People ran out of the buildings to watch them, careful to keep away from the takeoff and landing apron.
In no time at all the fifty-six ships had vanished from sight.
The Hound the World Classic had begun!
* * *
The race had begun at noon. At 12:07 the screen in the Operations office went blank.
Immediately the face of Frank Nielsen, one of the nation's top sports announcers, replaced the picture of the speeding
sports crafts.
"Well, it looks as if this will be the race of races," he said. "The fifty-six contenders were off to a fast start in this
twenty-seventh annual running of the Classic. They were favored by a prevailing wind which rode them briskly into
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
an eastward movement even before they reached the thirty-mile track. Fair skies made for fine ground observation and
millions were out with binoculars and other visual aids."
"Damn!" Thornton McAllister said, squirming in the soft, cushioned chair next to Murcheson. "Where the devil is the
picture of the racers? How's my son doing?"
"They're too far out over the Atlantic right now," Murcheson said. "We don't have a control point until Madrid."
McAllister looked at him aghast. "You mean there's no viewplane to follow them all the way?"
"Viewplanes are something else," Murcheson said. "We have them stationed along the route to follow the racers only
a designated distance. If we had too many of them they'd be getting in each other's way. Besides, viewplanes can't go
as fast as the racers ten miles above them."
"You had a picture all the way last year!"
"I'm sure we didn't, Mr. McAllister. I remember the race very well. I handled it."
"So do I remember it," McAllister said stiffly. "My son was in that one, too."
The view of Nielsen faded. The screen came to life with a long string of jetcraft high in the sky, looking like stars in the
late afternoon sky over Spain.
"Number one twenty-nine,
Skysweep,
Bert Schaun's ship, is leading by two hundred miles," the speaker intoned.
"Second is number seventy-two,
Lightning,
Baylor Evans' ship."
"Where's the
Mac IV?"
McAllister cried, getting to his feet.
As if it had heard, the speaker went on, "Evans leads number thirty, the
Mac IV,
Roger McAllister's ship, by three
miles. Behind McAllister are three ships separated only by a few miles. . . ."
* * *
Bert Schaun checked the peripheral scanners. It was night, but the scanners showed the earth was below, where it
THE MARS MONOPOLY
17
ought to be, the stars were in their accustomed places, and there wasn't a single contestant behind as far as he could
see.
He had long ago passed the control point at Madrid, had seen the long blue triangle pointing in the direction he
should next assume, had noted with satisfaction the single red dot in the middle of it. That meant he was leading the
field. Number one man!
Then he had passed other control points in rapid order: out of New York at 12 noon, Madrid at 12:16, Suez at 12:28,
Cocos at 12:40. They had all indicated he was still number one man. He wondered how far behind the rest of them were.
The next point was Melbourne. About 12:50. He could afford to relax a little But before he did, he let his eyes roam
over the diafs and gauges. Fuel O.K. He could go a-round the earth a half dozen times on the pellets in the re-actorjet.
Speed nudging 5.3 miles per second. He sighted down the infrascope, saw terrain moving slowly by thirty miles below.
Australia!
He chuckled. No matter how long he raced he'd never get over how you had to point your nose at the earth to maintain
a speed like that. Otherwise you'd go shooting off into space like a rock from a sling. He remembered other races and
other pilots. Some of them suddenly went crazy and pointed the noses of their ships up and started building up to 7.1,
and the next thing they knew they were on their way to infinity. Perhaps some of them are still on their way, he thought
grimly. Unless something stopped them. A meteor, for example. Or the moon. Chances are they'd never get by the
asteroid belt. At least not in sports craft like these. But of course they'd die of starvation before they ever got that far.
Or their oxygen would give out. One was as bad as the other.
He glanced at the speed indicator. The needle wavered
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THE MARS MONOPOLY
a little under 5.3. He moved the speed lever over another notch, saw with satisfaction the arm move up and pass 5.3. A
red blinker on the control panel started winking slowly, then faster. Bert moved the nose of the ship down to
twenty-nine degrees. The blinking slowed, then stopped.
Some day they'd go around the earth in a day. But they'd have to build better ships than the
Skysweep.
And when
they did go around that fast they'd have to point the nose straight down—or almost straight down—most of the time.
And then how could they get up any greater speed? There was such a thing as diminishing returns, even in racing.
He looked at his watch. It was 12:48. The race was more than half overl Only the last half, the breaking into sunlight
again, and he'd come roaring down to collect his $100,000 prize!
He felt sorry for McAllister. The kid had sunk a lot of his father's money in a racer and expected to win because of that.
Didn't he know it took a little skill to run a ship? You couldn't buy a thing like the 'Round the World Classic. You had
to train for it, work for it, dream for it. Just because your father wanted you to win wouldn't insure your getting it even
if you were a good-looking guy like McAllister, could spend as much as you wanted for a ship, and had a father who
could be counted on for a nice yearly appropriation to the International Jetcraft Racers Association. How they treated
him to his face and how they laughed at him behind his backl Bert didn't like it.
* * *
Thornton McAllister gripped the arms of his chair with sweating hands, eyes fixed on the screen.
Tiny flares moved slowly across it. First a single point of light, then another isolated point, then several pinpoints
together, followed by a mass of lights that looked like fireflies over a garden.
"The racers are over Western Australia now," the speaker
THE MARS MONOPOLY
19
said dispassionately. "In the lead position is number one twenty-nine,
Skysweep,
Bert Schaun's ship, which has
maintained first place since the first. . . ."
"Damn, damn, damn!" McAllister said, running a dry tongue over dry lips.
". . . but number seventy-two,
Lightning,
Baylor Evans's ship, has been passed by number thirty, the
Mac IV,
Roger
McAllister's ship, and now lags the
Mac
IV by a hundred miles. . . ."
"But how far behind—" McAllister started to say.
"Sh!" someone hissed.
". . . and the
Mac IV
seems to be catching up with the leader. . . ."
* * *
Bert sighted the Melbourne control point thirty miles below him, a green triangle, its lights shimmering like stars in the
night. He wondered how many miles lay between the cluster of lights that formed each of the lights in the triangle.
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