On that evil planet, broken men who had once trod Earth knew only two things for sure. One, they all were dying at twenty-five. Two, lovely Mona Darlanan was a dirty traitor. [Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Rod Harrow pawed futilely at the whirling sands in the gryxon mines on Tetrarch IV. Dimly, as through a dark mist, he could see the line of bob