REVOLT ON THE EARTH-STAR
By CARL SELWYN
Carver, lonely derelict from a happier
earth-age, raises the revolt-cry: "Down
with the Capeks!" And the luxurious, human
stockyards discharge their men-of-no-hope.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Rod Carver panted heavily and the sweat froze on his brow. Depending onhis ax work now, he swung again and again, chipped shallow holes intowhich he wedged trembling fingers and pulled himself a little higher.Inch by precarious inch he crept up the sheer wall of the glacier,kicking his toes hard into the niches below. Chilling splinters flewdown into his face as he chopped at the ice, high over the jagged andglistening crevice.
Not much farther. Just a little more. The patch of gray lichen wasbut a few yards above him now. It was on a small ledge. He could restthere. He had not thought it was so far but he must be several hundredfeet up by now.
Despite the biting wind, he was hot in the fur suit that covered hismuscular body. Eyes half-closed against the stinging shower that fellupon him, he moved slowly upward. There was a little crack in the icejust above him. Rod swung hard with the ax and it stuck there. Securinga firm hold with his left hand and making sure of his feet, he tuggedat the short handle. It held tightly. He joggled the handle back andforth, then jerked at it. It came loose suddenly. His arm flew backand his feet slipped beneath him. His face banged against the ice.Panic screamed in him as he dangled by one arm. Madly, he clawed thewall with his other hand, flailed with his feet. Numbing fear bathedhis entire body in cold perspiration. Then a foot found support and hecaught a niche with his right hand.
Rod clung there, weak and shaken, almost crying his thankfulness.Immediately upon the cessation of exertion, however, the cold creptupon him and he finally regained sufficient control to examine hisplight. He had lost the ax. His mittens were slick and wet; constantlyhe stretched numbing fingers for a new grasp upon the faithless ice asa treacherous film of water formed beneath them.
The wind whipped about him, breathed mournfully in the frozen recessesof the silent valley below. The sweat of fear formed on Rod's foreheadand he shuddered. Bugs or no bugs, he should have known better than toventure away from the rest of his friends alone.
He had left the advance base of the expedition for a short explorativejaunt, thinking he might pick up something new in the way of fauna, ofwhich the bleak Antarctic wastes had little to offer. He had caughtseveral large mosquitoes and, entranced by the desolate beauty of thisweirdly distorted and quiet void, had wandered farther than he hadintended. Then he had seen the little growth of lichen high on an icycrag. Thinking to add the specimen to his private collection, he hadclimbed the precipitous wall, and here he was, trapped, without hisax, unable to move up or down....
He pressed his young body against the ice as a freezing gale lashedabout him in a swirl of snow. Far below, he could see his haversackbeside the cliff.
"Lord!" he breathed. If he fell here they would never find him—thesnow would hide his body in no time. And he must get down or soon fall,frozen stiff.
He slid his free foot about the wall; there was a slight indentionjust below. He must chance it. Gingerly, he shifted his weight. Icecrumbled beneath his