MOON of MEMORY

                            By Bryce Walton

                  (author of "Earth Needs A Killer")

                         Illustration by Luros

           _Barstac found it hard to believe that this girl
         had helped him escape--until he learned her reason._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
      Future combined with Science Fiction Stories November 1950.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Barstac walked the mile across the red Martian plain. He felt but
little emotion as he reached the resort building, and the sports
rockets waiting on the other side. He had to get one of those rockets
and get to Deimos--or die trying. One would be about as good as the
other.

Then a slight tension grew in his stomach and sweat began to run down
under his helmet and pressure suit, down his sharp nose and the burned
face, as he started directly for the sports rockets.

He saw no one at all at first, then the gray-and-black-uniformed cop
not ten feet away. The cop's helmet tilted and curious eyes studied
Barstac. Barstac didn't wait for any further reaction; his face pulled
into a tight scarred grin as he fired. The kinetic energy release
burned away the side of the cop's head. A scream floated past from some
onlooker, intensified by the communicator in Barstac's helmet.

Barstac ran. He was almost to one of the rockets and exhilaration
filled him. He sensed an alien thing, so alien--freedom. Maybe freedom
just for a while. Then he heard shouts and saw men running in like
spokes into a wheel hub. He threw himself flat behind a loading truck
someone had abandoned enroute to a supply rocket.

Superson guns. They wouldn't kill him ... against the law to kill
criminals in the New System. More civilized to turn men into zombies
for the rest of their lives in a mine three miles underground; they had
to take him alive. A superson gun put a man out of action fast, but it
didn't kill him. Sound waves tuned right could crack a man's helmet
open; in Martian atmosphere that meant unconsciousness in a few seconds.

If they got a line on him he wouldn't have a chance to use his heat
gun. He didn't intend to be taken. He'd get a few of them, and then
have enough heat left to turn on himself.

Barstac shivered as part of the metal truck spanged and cracked like
glass. They'd got a line on him all right, fast. He fired and three men
turned into smoke and red steam. The others disappeared behind rockets,
sleds, and out-buildings; they could take their time.

A face appeared to his right. A man trying to edge away, but then he
stopped. A tourist in a dude suit, all spangled and glittery, styled to
the minute for Martian hunting. A face, young and pinched and shabby
with fear. His arms dangled limply. His lips behind the helmet were
tight with terror.

"Wait--" his voice sounded through the communicator. "Wait--please
don't shoot! I'm unarmed. I won't--"

Barstac grinned. A gag. The guy took a step back and Barstac fired. A
light charge right through the belly. The man folded to one side, his
mouth stretching, closing, opening. He grasped his middle and blood ran
through his fingers. He was on his knees, raising a red hand.

"Wait--don't--"

Barstac's next charge was heavier and it took off the man's head and
helmet in a burst of flame.

Barstac was on his feet, long legs straining desperately, running.
The sleek blue sports rocket slid across his path on its grav-plates.
Far beyond it rose the high cubed buildings of the City of Sanskran
looking very near although it was at least fifty miles away.

A woman's face stared out at him through the rocket's translucent
nose, a beautiful face inside a platinum helmet. Barstac didn't stop
to think; he leaped upward, swung himself to the top of the rocket's
skin and pressed the stud that should open the cockpit. He grabbed
desperately.

He screamed as he felt his helmet crack; they'd gotten a line. The
frigid cold clutched his face. He choked for oxygen, tried to yell. He
staggered back and collapsed across the top of the rocket.

He buried the opening on top of his helmet in his arms, released all
available oxygen. It gave him a few seconds, but he couldn't move.
He dimly saw the girl raise up through the cockpit. Nothing made any
sense then. She had the heat gun in her hand and was firing. She was
lifting him, throwing him over her shoulder, carrying him back toward
the cockpit!

In this light gravity it wasn't a feat of strength. But it made no
sense to Barstac. None at all. A woman he'd never seen, saving him. For
what?

All the lights went out then. Barstac stopped being curious....

It was very still--somewhere. Very still.

       *       *       *       *       *

Phobos shine came in through the plastex of the rocket and the controls
were quiet in front of him. A dead sea bottom stretched away outside
as far as anyone would want to see. Lichen and fungus, and a few of
those big blind Martian beetles wandering, following the direction of
the hurtling moon. And then Barstac saw Deimos rising, shining like a
monstrous beckoning firefly through the night.

He felt a terrible lassitude. He just sat there, his head against the
plastex looking out. He knew he wasn't alone in the rocket, but he
didn't look at who was beside him; he stared upward at Deimos.

For ten years in that Martian Prison for Incorrigibles, he had planned
escape. And the only escape was to Deimos. Once, a man could escape
into the unlimited expanse of the stars; but in the New System, the
nets were too tight.

The eery light of the double moons bathed the rocket as the larger moon
joined the smaller. Deimos was his only hope, if any remained. There,
they said, a man neither lived, nor died, ever again. The Martians were
kind, people said. But who really knew?

The Martians had retired quietly to Deimos when the Earthmen came
to Mars. They had a peculiar alien culture, nebulous and utterly
inhuman. With their floating, wispy, mist-like shapes that suggested
incomputable age, shapes the moons could shine through, and their
fog cities. No one bothered them on Deimos, a barren rock even Earth
Companies couldn't justify exploiting. But the Martians had peculiar
abilities. Inhuman they were, but they seemed to have great influence
over the human mind and the nervous system. On Deimos, it was said,
there were dreams for a man who had nothing else; anyone, even a
man like Barstac, was safe on Deimos. Few ever came back from where
only the lost went. And those who did come back, it was said, didn't
remember.

And for Barstac certainly there was no place else to go.

Now, through circumstances beyond him, he had a rocket; he was away
from the cops, and seemingly free. The girl--

His helmet had been removed. Out of the corner of his eye he watched
the girl secretly in the other pilot seat, calmly smoking a paraette.
Barstac saw the heat gun in her lap. He had a fondness for the weapon;
it had taken him ten years to piece it together. The psyche boys at
the prison with their intricate scanners had made a mistake with
Barstac--maybe the only one they'd ever made since the New System,
but even they weren't infallible; they hadn't uncovered his inventive
ability, even though he'd always had it. They had put him in the shops
down among the power tools and the atomic machines. Ten years was a
long time to build a simple heat gun; it had taken patience.

His hand darted out fast, hooked the heat gun from her lap. She gasped,
then sank back again and looked at him. She wore the regular sports
outfit, the helmet, the thigh boots. An expensive piece of blonde
goods, very expensive, with an oval face and pointed chin, skin light
and very clear. She gave him a slow steady look that was like turning
on a cyclotron. Her lithe figure reminded him. Sure, there'd been
other--but so long ago.

[Illustration: Barstac's hand darted out fast, hooked the heat gun
from her lap.]

"You can put the gun away," she said calmly. "Didn't I save your life?
There may be trouble for me, but Daddy Sayers can always buy his
daughter out of trouble. My name's Marian Sayers. Whatever it costs,
the excitement's worth it!"

Sayers! When Barstac had been imprisoned ten years ago, Sayers had been
one of the richest robber barons in the system. Probably the richest by
now. What would Marian Sayers want with Barstac?

       *       *       *       *       *

She laughed. It had a wild, odd sound. Her face had a wild look, too.
"I heard someone say 'Barstac'," she said. "And then I had to get you
out of there."

"Why?"

"You were the most infamous man in history when I was a little girl; I
used to dream about you. And all at once, there was an old dream, and
I could make it come true, so I did. All the credits in the world to
spend, and dying of boredom. I've tried everything, and found nothing
at all, Barstac."

"You've tried--Deimos?"

"Even Deimos. No one knowing of course. But--well, they have some
pretty interesting things, but still only dreams. This is reality,
Barstac. Karl Barstac. I can call you Karl. I'll get out if you want
and you can take my rocket. But--please! Take me with you!"

The vital animal warmth of her reached out to him and he put his arms
around her and drew her close against him. He looked into her eyes and
it was as if he looked into a book that was forbidden to him because
of hidden secrets. His pulse pounded. She watched him mutely, only her
parted lips trembled slightly. A small muscle at the corner of her
mouth twitched. He slid his hands flat against her shoulders. Her lips
parted and her tongue touched them for a moment. They were wet and
glistening and she was firm and warm in his arms. Her head went back
and she shut her eyes. He kissed her.

It was all right, he thought; then he looked above her blonde hair.
She was probably cracked somewhere upstairs; filled with phony dreams
of adventure and glamour and the devil knew what; intrigued by the
name of a guy who really didn't live anymore. Maybe she didn't know it,
didn't see the graying hair of him the way he saw it, nor the face so
scarred it couldn't register emotion any more.

And if nothing else, she was good for a hostage. It was still a long
way up to Deimos.

"Maybe we can get away," she whispered, her eyes closed. "I mean into
space. Maybe you could do some of the things you did in the old days.
We could live--for a while. I heard that once you stopped a ship
enroute to Venus and lifted twenty billion in credits."

Sure, he remembered. He smiled thinly, but he didn't say anything. He
didn't tell her that the days of the Barstacs were gone for good.

Finally he said, "Sure, you can come along. And thanks for the ride."

       *       *       *       *       *

He took the rocket up himself. They were pursued for a while, but the
sports rocket was a lot faster than any cop wagon this side of Earth.
Marian didn't seem to care when she saw he was heading for Deimos
instead of outer space. He explained about the big nets out there, and
of how they'd have to figure out a way to get through. She kept looking
at him with a kind of awe, her eyes wide and deeply dark. She talked
about herself.

"We'll hole up here for a while," Barstac said. "Maybe we can find a
way through the nets. You--you don't have to stay."

"I'll stay with you, Karl, right to the end."

"You say you've been here to Deimos before?"

She nodded, never taking her eyes from his hard, unemotional face. "All
my life I guess I've been looking for something. Maybe I thought I'd
find it on Deimos. I didn't; I found release there. I can find real
life with you, maybe the kind that flames so high for a moment, but is
worth a full lifetime of mundanity. I can find life with you, Karl, if
you'll pardon my being so forward. Maybe it's death we're looking for,
Karl. An escape from a system that's destroyed initiative. A system
that's tied up the human heart in a bunch of laws and hooked them
together into a big machine."

       *       *       *       *       *

Deimos. A great barren rock, its soaring crags sharp as splintered
steel. Masses of shadow dark as death, and splashes of brilliant color.
And you spotted one of those misty, foggy looking Martian places here
and there, wavering like something in a dream.

From the time the rocket settled on its grav-plates, from that moment
on, things turned into a dream for Barstac. Marian seemed to know her
way around. Not many had the guts to leave here once they came; but
she had. A strong will there. An odd woman. One he would liked to have
known--yesterday.

There was the music and the vapor that lulled him into lethargy,
something like sleep, only it wasn't sleep. There seemed to be rooms,
shifting, vague, translucent. And figures drifting like mist. He seemed
to hear voices, but they were inside him, high, thin, like the sighing
of plucked strings whispering in a low, dreaming distant key.

He heard Marian Sayer whisper. "Might as well enjoy it while we're
here. There are dreams here, many dreams, Karl. Any you want. Rest a
while, Karl, rest and sleep and later we'll plan what to do."

_Yes, sure_, he thought vaguely. _That's why I'm here, no not that. I'm
here because this is the end of the rocky road, and no further for me._
He was drifting, sinking away, floating. He dimly saw her face above
him, disembodied, her eyes strangely bright. The Martians were masters
of something called mnemonics, he knew that. Masters of mental probing
and the digging out of memory. Hypnosis or something like it, but way
beyond that.

He was in a Martian city in a valley on Deimos, somewhere in a
building, in a room. But he would never know the real shape of it, or
what it really was.

Her voice whispered. "Karl--they understand humans; they don't hate us.
They understand us better than we will ever understand ourselves. They
know what we really want deep inside, and they can give us whatever it
is. Don't worry about anything, Karl. I was here for a while, and I
know about the dreams. I'll fix everything for you."

"Fine," he murmured. He was lying somewhere, he was
floating--somewhere. It didn't matter where, not any more. Far away he
heard her voice now. "Were you ever happy, Karl?"

"I don't remember. Happiness?" He tried to laugh.

"Can't you remember happiness, Karl?"

He whispered to her of things he had forgotten. Shadows and shapes
appeared in the cloudy whiteness, ghostly and strange. Wavering
outlines darkened and altered. He remembered. He hadn't for a long
time, but he did now. In the asteroids where his Father had been a
mucker, mining heavy beryllium, paired-atom stuff. And his Mother
calling to him and he was running, laughing. Happiness. That was a long
time back, and that was where happiness ended.

That was when the cops came and tried to take his Father for mining
illegally and he had resisted. That was in the Old System, and they had
shot him with an electron rifle. His body exploding, spraying the cold
rocks with red and awful memory. And his Mother screaming and running,
falling, drifting down a thousand feet into darkness, her screams
fading ... fading....

Marian's voice came to him, softly. Music sang too, poignant, eery.
Caressing, gentle, and indefinably sad.

"Poor Karl," she whispered. "Poor Karl." Dimly he saw her face, like a
part of mist, and then he saw the gun reaching toward him out of the
vapor.

Instinctively he started to reach for it, but he couldn't move.
Drugged. He whispered. He felt very tired, tired and old. "What's the
play? What--"

"I'm going to kill you, Karl."

"Kill me--"

"I felt sorry for you; I still do. But not sorry enough. I decided to
kill you back there on Mars, and then when you came here, I thought
of something else. I thought you would reveal something, something
that would justify what you are. There wasn't enough. You never had a
chance, Karl. You knew happiness, but it was too long ago. We're alone
in this room, left to our dreams. But I'm not dreaming."

"I wish I was," Barstac said.

"I thought that here something would show inside of you so I wouldn't
hate you so much. But I do. I hate you more than I can tell you. But
it's enough so that I have to kill you."

"Why?" he whispered.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I hate you so much that I wanted to kill you. I knew if the police got
you, you wouldn't die. And I think death is a worse thing for you under
the circumstances than to be returned to prison. So I got you out of
there. I knew that sometime I would get a chance to kill you. So here
it is. You're dreaming, Karl. But I'm not--I--"

"All that--the things you said--you were lying?"

"Partly. You were a romantic figure once, and what I said about
myself--that was only the way it used to be. The Martians are
therapists, in a way. If you want to leave you can, but for most the
dreams are better. I left. I began to live, then, Karl. I married two
weeks ago. It was a beautiful thing for me; I loved my husband. But you
wouldn't understand. You never got a chance to learn. My husband was
the man you killed down there by the truck. Remember, Karl. The man who
was unarmed, who didn't know what it was all about, who begged you not
to kill him? We came to Mars for our honeymoon, Karl. I was waiting for
him in the rocket. He was coming to meet me--"

Her finger moved. Her face tightened. But he didn't feel anything. He
heard her muted cry and then the voice as the Martian he had seen only
vaguely before came back. The shape wavered ghost-like from the corner,
and he heard the Martian again.

_This is not a place for the old emotions. There is no revenge here. No
death._

She screamed and screamed, her face twisting with hate. "I want to kill
him! Let me, let me--!"

The Martian's thoughts were so calm and gentle, so old and wise.
_Relax, and sleep for a while. Maybe this time you'll want to stay with
us here forever._

She didn't answer. Barstac closed his eyes again. He had remembered
happiness, felt it, re-experienced it. And now he didn't want to die.

The Martian's thoughts were dimmer now, and Barstac drifted, and
little fingers of crepuscular light fingered out toward him, alluring,
disarming, and he drifted back, down the slide-board of time where pain
and ugliness were no longer.

Far away, the Martian's voice, talking to Marian perhaps, Barstac
didn't know.

_Humans are sick. The sickest ones eventually come here. More and
more will come. Someday perhaps we can help all of you find your way
backward or forward to happiness, and out of the old seas of pain.
Sleep, both of you. Sleep. There is only the happiness that was, or
that might have been. There is no more pain._

And then Barstac was with his Father again, running down the steep
slope under the bright promising light of a million stars frosty and
marvelously clear. His Father was laughing. His own wild abandoned
joy as he ran beneath the cloud rifts where the sunlight showed,
brightening the ragged tops of the asteroid's great metal mountains.

He heard his mother calling to him, and he ran faster.