The Grave of Solon Regh

By CHAS. A. STEARNS

Among the miserable Ghels of southern Mars George Seeling ventured—ready to share his fearless feats with all the world—but hardly ready to share the grave of Solon Regh.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

George Seeling was one of the most personable ghouls you would ever care to meet. When he disappeared three years ago, somewhere in the unexplored wilderness of southern Mars, his loss was mourned not only by the Terran Museum of Natural History, for whom he worked, but by a multitude of lovers of adventure by proxy, as well, who kept up with his astounding fortunes through their daily papers.

For George Seeling, who feared nothing that walked, crawled, flew, or pulsed, and who owned, moreover, a shining pair of seven league boots, in the form of an inexhaustible expense account, believed in sharing himself with the public. He adored publicity.

There was the time, for instance, that he made off with the crown jewels of the Tsarn Princess of Ganymede. The people loved it. All of them excepting, of course, the Ganymedians. They were considerably upset, but being a minority group, there was not much that they could do, once Seeling had escaped with the jewels.

Then there was the celebrated occasion of his robbing the crypts of Nakor, the Moon Goddess of Io. From Io he swiped several golden idols of inestimable value, which was just as well, for they were not doing the natives the least bit of good, despite their complaints. It almost caused an international incident, but the Museum kept the treasure, and their procurer collected a fat commission.

This, as one can readily see, demonstrates graphically that George Seeling felt almost as much at home in tombs as he did in the public eye.

The south of Mars is a rugged land of naked, red peaks and deep, impassable canyons; of reed-filled swamp lands and barren plateaus. The people who live there are primitive, and thin as greyhounds, but of a shy, gentle nature, with huge, dark, melting eyes set deep in leathery, purplish skin, and nervous, splayed bare feet that can pad the sands of the uplands at incredible speed.

To George Seeling the ghels were merely an incidental impression to add to the 

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