THE SECRET MARTIANS
by JACK SHARKEY
ACE BOOKS, INC.
23 West 47th Street,
New York 36, N. Y.
THE SECRET MARTIANS
Copyright, 1960, by Ace Books, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
MASTER SPY OF THE RED PLANET
Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws inany scheme almost on sight—even where they had eluded the best brainsin the ad agency where he worked. So when the Chief of World Securitytold him that he had been selected as the answer to the Solar System'sgreatest mystery, Jery assumed that it was because of his mentalagility.
But when he got to Mars to find out why fifteen boys had vanished froma spaceship in mid-space, he found out that even his quick mind neededtime to pierce the maze of out-of-this-world double-dealing. For Jeryhad become a walking bomb, and when he set himself off, it would be theend of the whole puzzle of THE SECRET MARTIANS—with Jery as the firstto go!
Jack Sharkey decided to be a writer nineteen years ago, in the FourthGrade, when he realized all at once that "someone wrote all thosestories in the textbooks." While everyone else looked forward variouslyto becoming firemen, cowboys, and trapeze artists, Jack was devouringevery book he could get his hands on, figuring that "if I put enoughliterature into my head, some of it might overflow and come out."
After sixteen years of education, Jack found himself teaching highschool English in Chicago, a worthwhile career, but "not what one wouldcall zesty." After a two-year Army hitch, and a year in advertising"sublimating my urge to write things for cash," Jack moved to New York,determined to make a career of full-time fiction-writing.
Oddly enough, it worked out, and he now does nothing else. He says,"I'd like to say I do this for fulfillment, or for cash, or becauseit's my destiny; however, the real reason (same as that expressed byJean Kerr) is that this kind of stay-at-home self-employment lets mesleep late in the morning."
1
I was sitting at my desk, trying to decide how to tell the women ofAmerica that they were certain to be lovely in a Plasti-Flex brassierewithout absolutely guaranteeing them anything, when the two securitymen came to get me. I didn't quite believe it at first, when I lookedup and saw them, six-feet-plus of steel nerves and gimlet eyes, staringdown at me, amidst my litter of sketches, crumpled copy sheets anddeadline memos.
It was only a fraction of an instant between the time I saw them andthe time they spoke to me, but in that miniscule interval I managedto retrace quite a bit of my lifetime up till that moment, seekingvainly for some reason why they'd be standing there, so terribly andinflexibly efficient looking. Mostly, I ran back over all the ads I'dcreated and/or okayed for Solar Sales, Inc. during my five years withthe firm, trying to see just where I'd gone and shaken the securityof the government. I couldn't find anything really incriminating,unless maybe it was that hair dye that unexpectedly turned bright greenafter six weeks in the hair, but that was the lab's fault, not mine.So I managed a weak smile toward the duo, and tried not to sweat tooprofusely.
"Jery Delvin?" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business inhis brusque baritone.
"... Yes," I said, some terrified portion of my mind waitingmasochistically for them to draw