Russell Ghelus thumbed the heptagonal cylinder of his .38 Special Oersted gauss revolver, watching the bullets spin round and round, waiting across the street from the armory for the Terran to exit.

Born and raised on Rubrum, he still remembered the days when she had almost been green. Almost. Memories so estranged, it seemed as if they were now foreign to his mind. Completely alien.

But the ground now? Reverted back to red. Red sand. Red dirt. Red everywhere. Like the land itself had been soaked in blood. Most of it anyhow. NASA and Tesla Inc. only knew that hostile Mars had killed enough humans to dye it permanently scarlet.

Rubrum always desired new blood.

In a way Russ was like a sacrificial priest from one of the ole' Terran religions. When a man or woman disrupted the peace by crossing the line, he'd offer their life to Rubrum, let her drink freely.

Russ' pa was a homesteading radish and tomato farmer. The Terran government gave his great grandfather free Rubrum land, livestock, seed, and a one-way trip from Terra to Rubrum. Then Terra forgot all the support they promised. Got themselves caught up in another world war or the like. All Russ knew was you couldn't trust a Terran. They only cared for themselves. And after being estranged for years because of the war, they still expected current taxes, and back pay for what they missed. So Russ' father told him. Them Terrans whittled his already small father down to the bone, like they had every other Rubrun. The vultures.

As for Russ, he'd developed one of the fastest, accurate draws this side of the planet. Even his pa told him he'd make a sheriff someday. To this day Russ suspected the Sheriff had deputized Russ simply so he wouldn't have competition. He wanted to ensure Russ' barrels pointed away from him, not at him.

Crag was second smoothest draw to him. Though a good partner, Crag was about as intelligent as his name implied. Rocks fer brains. But he was a dang good shot too. Between Russ and Crag, they could outshoot any man in Tharsis. They were both better shots than the Sheriff too, but he wore the badge and they didn't. Sheriff's power wasn't in his blaster, it was in his words. The man had connections, built on expectations, and promises.

So Russ and Crag had been sent in his stead.

They had gotten tipped off from Gimpy Gil the saloon owner that some supposed crack shot Terran was fixin' to make trouble in Tharsis. They heard from Slim he'd purchased a speeder at more than double the price. One of those ridiculous bot Mustangs too. By the time they located him, he was in the armory buying out the owner's stock of ammunition. Fixing to make trouble indeed. Well Sheriff wouldn't stand for trouble. No-sir-ee. Sheriff intended to go himself, but Russ saw a strange look in his eyes when he named the Terran.

"What's this fella's name?"

"Gil said he's known as Trace the Ace. Some kinda Terran lawman."

Sheriff's face became serious as a seizure. Void. Empty of all emotion. Russ had never seen Sheriff turn as yeller as sour milk.

"How do you boys feel about handling this one?"

"He a good shot?" asked Crag.

Sheriff licked his lips, slow like. Then he nodded. "Shale yes. Real quick."

Russ grinned. "Ain't no Terran rat gonna get the best of ole' Russell."

"And if'n he does," Crag beat his chest, "I'll avenge ye."

Well Russ didn't like the look in Sheriff's eyes. His eyes spoke of fear, the way a cornered sheep did come shearing time. Crag might be a fool, but not Russ. That was why he ordered two scum like Milton and Edom to confront the man. Russ didn't even deputize 'em. Only offered them a few creds. Heck not even that. He offered drinks on him. Free drinks and potentially shooting a man down in the name of the Law? The boys had been ecstatic. It was a win-win situation. If this Tracy posed a real threat, Milton and Edom would bite the dust, not Russ. And if this Tracy was less than Sheriff cracked him up to be, then those two alchys could have drinks on him.

The bell on the armory door rang, and out swaggered the Terran. Russ got a good look at him, sized up the man. Dressed head to toe in black. If Russ didn't know any better, the man could have fit the description of a preacher, a lawman, or an undertaker. Apparently he hailed from a certain Airy-zona , a dry land, not unlike Tharsis. Well, he could dress to impress, but would he come quietly?

Sweaty Milton leaned on his left leg in the middle of the road to the man's side, while Edom stood parallel with his buddy, about a speeder's distance between them. The stringy haired dolt twirled his gun like a moron while Milton did the talking.

"You Tracy Irving, otherwise known as Trace the Ace?"

"I see my reputation has preceded me."

Russ scowled. He didn't like the man's cocky temperament. He'd soon fix that.

"The Sheriff of these parts would like an audience with you."

"Uh huh."

"He'd like you to come quietly. I, however, don't mind either way." Milton parted his duster revealing his gauss revolver.

The man Tracy clicked his tongue. The machine steed trotted from the side of the building over to the Terran. He pressed his hand on the steed and a hidden compartment popped out so he could store the lever action rifle he'd just acquired from the armory.

"And what if I don't have time to come? What if I have pressing business? I am a lawman myself after all. You can respect a man's time can't you?"

The Terran turned so that his star glinted in the sun's rays.

"See, about that star," said Milton, "that's what the Sheriff would like to talk about. It don't mean much of anything here. And I suspect the Sheriff will tell you just as much."

"Then why didn't he come get me himself?"

The challenge hung in the air like a starship. Big, heavy, and ready to be shot down.

Crag elbowed Russ. "Here it comes." He licked his lips, anticipating a shootout like a boy about to steal his first kiss.

"Shuddap, Crag. Be ready."

"Oh, you bet I'm ready."

The Terran moved to mount the horse.

Edom clicked his tongue, as the man had done. "Ah ah ah. Saddle up on that steed and I'll have to shoot."

"Is that so?"

At Russ' side, Crag panted like a dog, mouth open, tongue hanging out slightly. While not as eager for a shootout, curiosity tugged at Russ.

In the middle of the street, Milton's hand twitched toward his gun. The Terran went still as a statue. Russ smiled. The drunks had Tracy scared straight.

Or he thought they did.

Tracy planted his feet firm, taking a wide stance. Russ noticed both his gun grips faced forward. Russ scowled. Reverse draw? For both guns? That was as bold as it was backward. Russ preferred a cross draw and so kept his piece a little off center mass, away from his dominant hand. Crag wielded a standard draw, but Russ doubted Crag had ever tried any other way, too stupid to notice there were variations to holstering a gun. As for Milton and Edom, Russ couldn't recall what kind of draw they used.

Pew. Pew.

Two electromagnetic blasts cut the silence.

Russ had not seen Tracy's arm move. One moment his arm hung limp at his side. The next moment sparks flew from the end of Tracy's barrel.

Milton was still raising his revolver when a projectile ripped the gun from his hands. His jaw swung on a hinge. He eyed his draw hand. It was fine. His blaster lay in the dust, toasted.

He and Edom exchanged a glance. Edom's gun lay in the dust too, his hand also fine. On impulse Edom bent to retrieve it.

Pew.

The gun skittered away like a lizard.

Russ stood still, dumbfounded. Before he knew it, Tracy Irving mounted his ridiculous metal steed, bobbing up and down atop his metal Mustang, his back to Crag and Russ.

It all happened so fast. How? Until today he was the fastest draw in all of Tharsis. Maybe even all of bloody Rubrum.

But the Terran lawman had been faster. And not even a hair on the back of the drunk's hands were singed.

He stared at Tracy's back, open amazement splayed across his face.

"Trace the Ace indeed."

The two drunks interrupted the deputies. "We still getting those drinks?"

Crag smacked the backs of both their heads. "Shuddap. Scram."

Russ and Crag hopped in their two-seater and sped off. They passed the man on horseback, looped back around, flipped on the blue and red flashing lights, and cut him off.

Russ flashed his badge. Crag just scowled.

Tracy brought his steeder to a halt, blue and red pulsing lights reflecting in the steeder's chrome hide.

"Can I help you boys?"

"Sure," said Russ. "We're the real Law 'round these parts."

"Deputies," barked Crag.

"The Sheriff truly does want to speak with you."

"Okay. But you know you're holding up a U.S. Marshal from tracking a wanted murderer and a fugitive?"

Russ shrugged. "I ain't the Sheriff. I just work for him. Do I need to ask again?"

Tracy sat, unmoving as a hawk. While Russ kept one hand on the speeder steering, his dominant hand already wielded his blaster, just under the dashboard. He could match the Terran's draw, speed for speed. He was sure of it.

Russ held his breath.

Tracy's hand lifted slow, empty, and palm up. "Lead the way."

Russ spat. He'd wanted to put the Ace to the test. Settle who was the best. He whipped the speeder around, letting Tracy eat his dust all the way to the Sheriff's office.