H. B. Fyfe

“ The heat waves shimmered above the reddish desert sand until the Martians were blurred before Charlie's burning eyes. His feet churned the clinging mud, and he felt as if he were running in a dream.
"I'm sorry you're in it, too," he panted.
"It does not matter. I act as I must."
The Earthman rubbed sweat from his eyes with the back of a muddy hand.
"Everything is wrong," he mumbled. "I still can't remember cracking up the ship. Why did I always want to be a rocket pilot? Well ... I made my bed!" ”

“ Kho rippled his tentacles and moved lissomely to the doorway, assuming a grotesquely furtive posture as he peered out. "The people are maddened by the drought. The will be aroused to sacrifice you to the Canal Gods, like the others who survived."
"Canal gods!" croaked Charlie. "This can't be right! Aren't you civilized here? I can't be the only Earthman they've seen!"
"It is true that Earthmen are perfectly safe at most times."
"But the laws! The earth consul—"
Kho snapped the tip of a tentacle at him.
"The canals are low. You can feel the heat and dryness for yourself. ”

“ You have not been conscious for some time." His reddish host rippled upward to stand more or less erect upon three thick tentacles. "Even with us, memory is slow after shock. And you may be uneasy in the lighter gravity."
Light gravity! reflected Charlie. This can only mean—MARS! Sure! That must be it—I was piloting a rocket and cracked up somewhere on Mars.
It felt right to him. He decided that the rest of his memory would return.
"Are you able to rise?" asked the other, extending a helpful tentacle.
The Earthman managed to haul himself stiffly to his feet. ”