0426
0426f
Chimera World
CHIMERA WORLD
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
Don Denton had walked into the weirdest
enigma he had ever encountered. Dead men
_lived_, and ships vanished without sound.
And to top everything, when he tried to
unravel the puzzle--he found that _he_
had been dead for more than a week.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Don Denton, trouble shooter for the Inter-World Mining Corporation,
watched the sailors stowing the supplies aboard his small scout rocket,
checking the items from the manifest sheet as they were packed in the
storage compartments.
"That takes care of that," he said finally, signing the sheet with his
thumbprint. "Now, I'll be on my way."
The Skipper nodded, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose so,"
he agreed. "Are you sure you won't stay to dinner? I've got a cargo
of Martian _panyanox_ that should taste plenty good to you after two
months of spacing on vitamins."
Don Denton grinned, scrubbed a heavy hand through the reddish, curly
mop of hair that flamed above his craggy face. He shrugged, the leather
jacket growing taut across his deceptively wide shoulders.
"Nothing I'd like better," he said, "but I've got orders to get to
Venus and find out why the _Lanka_ shipments haven't been coming
through on schedule."
"Trouble?" Interest flared in the Skipper's eyes.
Don Denton laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "Probably some space tramp
landed and sold the men some Martian _Ganto_ seeds. They're probably
nursing such large hangovers that they can't work. I'll just take the
supplies on, give the boys a pep talk, then head back for Earth."
"All loaded, Captain," a sailor's voice came from the televisor screen.
Don Denton lounged to his feet. "So long, Captain," he said, "I'll
remember that _Panyanox_ invitation, the next time I run into you on
Mars."
"Sure, sure, of course!" The Skipper flushed. "Er, ah--, Denton?"
"Yes?" Don Denton turned from the door.
"I've got a passenger I want to transship to Venus."
Don Denton grinned, shook his head. "Sorry, Captain," he said, "but no
can do; company rules, you know."
"But this passenger--?"
"No," Denton said decisively. "In the first place, I can't carry
passengers on the scouter; and in the second place, I haven't the
slightest desire to be holed up with anybody. Sorry, but your passenger
will have to get a charter job for the trip."
"What I'm trying to tell you," the Skipper said, "is that Miss Palmer
has a Company pass to ride with you."
"Miss Palmer!" The trouble shooter frowned belligerently. "Any relation
to Palmer who is the manager on Venus?"
"Daughter, I think."
"Well, you can tell Miss Palmer for me that she's out of luck. Hell,
I'll make a bet she's one of two kinds of dames: Either she's the
flighty kind who thinks it's just too too divine to explore another
planet, or she's the needle-nosed kind who'd drive me nuts with her
complaints in half a clock-around!"
"I can assure you that she fits neither of those descriptions," the
Skipper said, smiled. "In fact, she's about the nicest bit of meteor
fluff that's crossed my rockets in many a day."
"Thank you, Captain," Jean Palmer said amusedly from behind Don Denton.
She walked past the trouble shooter, turned to face him squarely.
"Woman hater?" she finished quizzically.
Don Denton flushed, his tan deepening, his startlingly blue eyes
evading the mocking, brown eyes of the girl. He shifted nervously from
foot to foot, his collar suddenly tight and constricting.
"Er--no!" he said defensively, "I--er, well, just don't want any
company on my ship."
He felt the flush deepening beneath the level glance of the girl, and
hot blood was suddenly pounding at his temples.
The Captain had been right; certainly she didn't fit either of the
descriptions Don Denton had given. She was tall, her softly waved crown
of hair almost even with the trouble shooter's mouth. And the mannish
cut of her plastic dress only served to emphasize the femininity of her
body.
* * * * *
But Don Denton was not noticing such minor details; he was conscious
only of the incredible redness and smoothness of her lips and of the
level appraisal of her eyes. He shivered suddenly, vaguely aware that
he was unshaven, gangly, with too prominent teeth and ears.
"I have a pass to ride with you," the girl said mockingly. "Do you
think you can get around it?" Her tone changed, became suddenly,
subtly, frightened and bewildered. "Please," she finished, "I must go
with you! I haven't heard from my father in three months; I know that
something has happened to him!"
"Well," Don Denton frowned, was suddenly aware of the dim perfume of
her hair. "I guess, if you've got a pass, there's nothing I can do but
take you along."
"That's fine!" the Skipper said heartily, a trifle relievedly. "I told
Miss Palmer you'd probably be glad to give her a lift."
"I knew Mr. Denton wouldn't let me down," the girl said quietly, "I've
heard too many stories of his bravery and gallantry."
Don Denton grinned sheepishly, not absolutely certain as to whether the
girl was being ironical or not. He searched her face, felt a distinct
shock to his nerves when his gaze met with hers.
"Just routine," he countered deprecatingly.
He shrugged, shook hands quickly with the Skipper. "I'll see you in a
couple of months. Thanks for bringing the supplies out of your regular
lane; it saved me several weeks of spacing to Earth and back."
"That's all right, Denton," the Captain said, "I still remember the
fight you put up when those Gillies attacked my ship off--"
"Sure, sure!" Don Denton cut the flow of the other's words, swung to
face the girl. "I'll have a man put your duffle aboard, Miss Palmer."
She smiled, her teeth flashing whitely. "Thank you, but I had them
taken aboard half an hour ago."
Don Denton blinked in surprise, and the corners of his mobile lips
twitched in a wry smile. "All right, then," he said, "let's be getting
on; if we miss connections, we'll have to chase Venus halfway round the
sun."
He led the way down the corridor, his thoughts a maelstrom in his
mind. He was not a woman hater, nor did he care for them especially,
but there was something about the level-eyed slender girl at his back
that stirred him deeply. He shook his head slightly, wished that he had
not stopped to pick up the supplies from the freighter. He had a vague
premonition that the even tenor of his life was destined to be rudely
shattered by an indefinable something that he could not fight with the
strength of his rangy body nor the solidness of his fists.
* * * * *
The _Comet_ sped in a long parabola from the side of the freighter, a
long skid-mark of flaming rocket gas in the darkness behind, and headed
obliquely toward Venus which gleamed greenly far ahead.
Don Denton pressed the last of a series of studs on the control panel,
cut in the robot-pilot, then grinned admiringly at Jean Palmer.
"Sorry I was rude back there," he apologized.
The girl's answering smile was like a ray of light in the cabin. She
stretched lazily in the padded seat, brushed a vagrant lock of hair
from her eyes.
"I guess it was my fault," she admitted. "I never stopped to think that
you might not like the job of playing space taxi with me. But," her
eyes were suddenly serious, "I simply have to see if anything is wrong
with my father."
Don Denton grinned. "There's nothing to be afraid of on Venus," he said
confidently. "I've been there half a dozen times, and all I've found
was a water world, with very little land. About the only life on the
planet is of a fish type, which lives deep in the oceans."
"That's what my father told me."
"Well, he was exactly right; it's about the deadest world I've seen.
There are nine patches of land, probably mountain tops, and each of
them are covered with _Lanka_ plants. I suppose you know that that is
what your father is doing there--that is, he's cutting and rendering
the plants for their oil?"
Jean nodded. "Yes, he told me. But after all--"
She screamed suddenly, clutched wildly at the arms of her seat. And the
motion sent her flying into the air, where she struggled for a balance
that wasn't there.
"Easy," Don Denton said, reached out, drew her back to her seat. "It's
that blasted gravity rotor again!"
* * * * *
He went sideways from his seat, catching a flashlight from a wall-clip
as he did so, then pulled himself by the wall hand rail toward the rear
of the cabin.
"I'm going to be ill," Jean said weakly.
"Chin up," Don Denton said sharply. "I'll have everything all right in
a moment. The clutch on the gravity rotor is about shot, and it quits
on me every now and then. When the gravity gets back to normal, you'll
feel all right again."
He turned on his back, wedged himself beneath a small metal box
clamped to the rear wall, swinging the light of the hand flash into
the interior of the box. He made a one-handed adjustment, and normal
gravity grasped them again.
The light of his flash faded, went out, as the gravity became
stabilized, then flashed on again the moment the trouble shooter edged
from beneath the gravity rotor.
Jean Palmer gasped, and slowly color came back to her white face. Don
Denton nodded to himself, strode back to the pilot's seat, slumped
indolently into its padded depths. He flicked the switch on the
flashlight, pushed it into its wall-clip.
"What made the light go out?" Jean asked curiously.
Don Denton shrugged. "The rotor creates some sort of an energy
shield," he said, "that blankets out all electrical energy." He gazed
solicitously at the girl. "Feel better now?"
She nodded. "I think so," she said. "I just felt so funny--as though
everything in me was upside down."
Don Denton grinned. "I know," he said, "I started spacing when a man
rode a ship with the seat of his pants; I've been plenty sick from lack
of gravity. Hah! this new crop of spacers don't know what it is to live
without gravity for months, then find they can't walk the minute they
land on some planet--because of gravity pull."
"You've done that?" Jean's eyes were wide with wonder.
Don Denton grinned self-consciously. "Without bragging," he said, "I
think I've just about done everything and seen everything. There's very
little that would surprise me."
Jean laughed, and the sound was a tinkling overtone above the dim roar
of the rockets. "You know," she said, "you're a rather remarkable
person!"
Don Denton flushed, dry-washed his hands in embarrassment. "Aw," he
said self-consciously, "I'm just doing a job."
"Well, I like you."
Don Denton became very busy with the compact integrator, his hands
suddenly all thumbs.
Jean Palmer leaned over, touched his arm with a slender hand. "I'm glad
you're the one taking me to my father," she said. "If there is anything
wrong, I'm certain you can straighten it out."
"I'll try." Don Denton met the girl's eyes squarely. "Now you'd better
take a dose of sleep rays; after all, it will be about eighty hours
before we land."
"Sleep rays on a space ship!"
"Yes!" Don Denton paused with one hand on a control stud. "You see, a
scouter isn't like a pleasure craft or a freighter. Nine-tenths of the
time aboard is spent sleeping--conserves food and oxygen."
"All right, Don," Jean said, relaxed comfortably in the cushions.
* * * * *
Don Denton pressed the stud, sighed deeply as the purple ray coned
down from the overhead bulb and bathed the girl in its nimbus. He
straightened the girl's arms a trifle, careful not to permit his head
to be touched by the rays, then swung back to the integrator. Jean
slept peacefully, a slight smile skidding a dimple into sight, the
curves of her breasts rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.
Don Denton shrugged, bent again over the integrator. He set up the
combination he desired, pressed keys, glanced absently at the answer.
Nodding, he set the course on the robot-pilot, sighed gustily, sank
tiredly into the heavy cushions of his seat.
He sat quietly for moments, the smile going from his eyes, a slight
frown thinning his mobile mouth. He was more worried than he would
have admitted. For this was the first time in eighteen months that the
_Lanka_ shipments had not come through on schedule from Venus.
The fern-like _Lanka_ plants were of incalculable value to the
inhabited worlds, for the oil rendered from the plants was the only
perfect cure for cancer and numerous other diseases. Its curative
powers had been discovered accidentally by two wrecked spacers on
Venus three years before when one of the spacers had been cured of
space-tuberculosis by an enforced diet of cooked plants and Venusian
fish.
Don Denton remembered the regularity with which the shipments had been
coming through and the worry the head office had felt when the oil had
failed to arrive on time two months before. He had been called in as
a last resort, because he knew the planet from past experience, and
because of his reputation as a trouble shooter who always got results.
He was worried now. For despite his assurances to Jean Palmer, he knew
that there were dangers on Venus. In the depths of its oceans, great,
foul, nightmarish creatures lived sluggish lives, and if some accident
should rouse them to action, they might well wipe out an entire camp in
a few moments. Then again, because of the incredible value of the oil,
space pirates might have raided the base camp, murdered the men, then
escaped with the oil already rendered.
"Damn!" Don Denton said thoughtfully.
He glanced at the sleeping girl, smiled slightly. He felt a sudden
protective instinct in his heart that had never been there before, and
his hands clenched unconsciously at the thought of what disappointments
and heartaches might lie ahead for her.
He shrugged then, grinned wryly into space. Well, there was nothing he
could do now but wait. If there was some sort of trouble on Venus, he
would have enough trouble then in trying to cope with it; there was no
sense in worrying himself stiff about it now. He'd know soon enough.
He clicked on the automatic mechanism of the sleep ray, drifted into
dreamless slumber as the purple rays erased all conscious thought from
his mind.
II
Venus was no longer a green planet; it loomed ahead like some woolly
ball spinning in space. The _Comet_ circled it warily, Don Denton's
fingers resting lightly on the control studs of the instrument panel,
his lips pursed a bit as he drove the ship closer to the clouds.
"It will probably be several hours before we land," he explained to the
wide-eyed Jean at his side, "Trying to find the _Lanka_ camp in that
soup down there is quite a job in itself, even after I get the _Comet_
through fifteen miles of cloud banks."
Jean was a trifle pale, but there was a spark of confidence in her
eyes. "I think," she said quietly, "I feel like you must have felt the
first time you landed here."
Don Denton smiled. "There's no feeling like it," he admitted. "I felt
it first on the Earth's Moon, and I knew then that I'd never be able
to settle down into some routine job. I suppose I'll end my life still
feeling that thrill, still seeking out hidden places in the universe."
He pressed a firing stud, and the _Comet_ flashed down toward Venus.
For the first time, there was a sense of movement, as the spinning
clouds rushed to meet the ship. Always before, with nothing relative
to compare their speed with, and because the inertia-field sent all
molecules of ship and contents ahead at the same rate of speed, there
had been the sensation of staying at rest in the blackness of space.
Now, there was something breathtaking in the way that the ship seemed
to be dropping.
Then the first tendrils of cloud whipped lazily about the _Comet_.
There was the thrum of the rockets rising to a higher crescendo, and
the force screen's voltemeter leaped higher to combat the friction of
the tenuous air. Another second, and the great cottony batts of cloud
pressed with invisible force against the ship.
And then there was only a grey darkness outside, all light from the sun
nullified by the thicknesses of clouds.
Don Denton drifted the ship lower, his fingers flying over the control
studs, handling the ship's weight as a horseman controls his mount by a
light touch of the reins.
There seemed to be no mental passage of time while the ship was
sinking. Moments flowed into each other, and always the clouds seemed
to be pressing with a tenuous strength at the quartzite ports.
Then they were through the clouds, and a thousand feet below the ocean
tossed and tumbled with a majestic silence that was thrilling and
menacing.
Don Denton's breath escaped with a tiny sigh of relief, and his eyes
flashed to the girl's face, then back again to the window. He was
conscious of the close scrutiny she had given him during those tense
moments, and he wondered, irrelevantly, if he measured up to her
standards.
"Where's all of the light coming from?" she asked curiously.
"From some sort of minute animal life in the oceans. The water is so
filled with tiny worm-like forms of life that I doubt if you could
find one cupful of clear water anywhere. They glow like fireflies, and
the light generated is reflected back from the low clouds." Don Denton
grinned. "I used to call Venus the 'Light bulb planet'!"
"It's beautiful!" Jean breathed in rapture.
Don Denton nodded, swung the _Comet_ directly North. Beneath them, the
ocean was a shifting, white-capped wash of silvery light, gleaming
with a phosphorescent sheen, its turbulence a shifting kaleidoscope of
shattered colors.
And then the water was broken, and a scaly, blunt something darted out
of the water, fell crashing in a spray of light.
"What was that?" Jean whispered.
Don Denton swallowed heavily. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Probably
some deep sea monster; and he must have been fully three hundred feet
long!"
He sent the _Comet_ flashing ahead, the memory of the scaly monster
tensing his broad shoulders in a shiver of disquiet. Jean sat silently
at his side, quiet for once, and he felt a quick stab of emotion when
he read the worry that lay deep in her eyes.
They cruised for almost an hour before Don Denton located the base
camp. It had moved from island One to island Three, and its earthly
regularity in the green of the _Lanka_ jungle was pleasant to see.
"Five minutes," Don Denton said cheerfully, "and you can surprise your
dad."
"Oh, hurry!" Jean said, bent close to the port-window.
* * * * *
Don Denton nodded silently, but there was suddenly a great fear in him.
For nowhere in the camp below was there a sign of life.
Smoke was not bulging from the short stack of the rendering plant, and
men did not dart from the small shacks to greet the landing ship. The
camp appeared to be deserted.
"I don't see anyone?" Jean said puzzledly, fearfully.
Don Denton forced a confident laugh, but his eyes were entirely
serious. "They're all probably out in the jungle grubbing up the best
grade of plants. Don't worry, when they hear the rockets, they'll come
stringing in plenty fast."
He set the _Comet_ down squarely in the middle of the clearing, touched
studs, and there was an immediate cessation of noise and vibration.
"This is it," Don Denton said quietly. "Slip on an oxy-helmet, and
we'll take a look around."
He smiled away some of the growing fear in the girl's eyes, but there
was a growing panic in him that he could not quell.
He could see no one; there was not the slightest sign of life. Yet
there should be fifteen men working here. Don Denton shrugged, and
there was suddenly a steely gleam in his eyes. He slipped the light
helmet over his head, fastened the air-tight cloth beneath his chin.
"Let's go, Jean," he said into the tiny transmitter of his helmet. "Be
careful not to dislodge your helmet; the air will make you ill unless
you are acclimated to it."
He could see the tiny tremulous smile on her lips, and he held her hand
tightly for a moment. Then he spun the cogs of the port-door, felt the
slight breeze about his body as the higher compressed air of the ship
soughed into the heavy air of Venus.
He helped the girl to the muddy ground, lifted the ati-gun from his
belt, paced slowly toward the main hut, his eyes flashing everywhere
for the slightest sign of danger, absolutely certain now that things
here were even worse than he had conceived them to be.
There was an indefinable threat of danger in the stillness of the great
clearing that tightened Don Denton's nerves. Far away, could be heard
the dull rumble of the eternal waves on the island's edge, and closer
could be heard the soft hissing of the air through the green _Lanka_
fronds.
The clearing had been baked brick-hard with an ati-cannon; now its
surface was spotted with soupy puddles of green mud where the every-day
rains had seeped into some hollow.
Two freighters squatted near the North edge of the clearing, their
dulled sides scabrous with great patches of growing rust, their empty
ports like great blank staring eyes watching the two terrestrials
slowly approach the main hut.
"Don," Jean pressed close to the trouble shooter's tall body, "where is
everybody?"
Don Denton shook his head, a furry spider of apprehension crawling
up his spine, his eyes piercing and searching as he held the ati-gun
in a tremorless hand. He walked slowly forward, the eeriness of the
silver-lighted scene touching his sensibilities.
[Illustration: _The dis-gun wailed in Denton's fist._]
He fired the moment the slug-like creature came from the hut's door,
the wailing hiss of the gun strangely loud. There was a silent scream
that crescendoed and titillated in diminishing waves, then the creature
collapsed into a protoplasmic mass that quivered horribly for a moment
and then was still.
"Don!" Jean said fearfully.
The trouble shooter's face was like chiselled granite, and he stepped
to the door of the hut and rayed the stinking mass of bubbly flesh out
of existence. He handed the twin ati-gun to the girl, nodded toward the
hut's interior.
"Stay here," he snapped, "while I take a look inside. Shoot at anything
that moves."
He smiled then for the first time, seeing the determination in the
lines of the girl's chin. Then he whirled, stepped within the doorway,
his nerves icy cold, the flat muscles of his body ready for instant
darting action.
He stopped, his breathing a startled gasp. Eight men were within the
hut, eight men lying in the stillness of death.
"Good God!" he said, paced swiftly across the floor to the tiers of
bunks along the far wall.
He went from man to man, feeling for a pulse on each man, the cold
sweat of terror breaking on his forehead when he was finally convinced
that all eight of the hut's occupants were dead.
He shivered, backed to the door, his eyes darting about the cabin, a
sharp prodding prescience within him that every movement of his was
being watched. He closed the door, stood speechlessly beside the girl
for a moment.
"What is it, Don; what did you find?" Jean's fingers tightened on his
biceps.
* * * * *
Don Denton swallowed heavily, avoided the girl's eyes. "Let's take a
look at the other sleeping hut," he said tonelessly, tried to keep the
horror he felt from his expression.
"There is something wrong; I know it!" Jean went rigid, her breath
catching in her throat. "My father's in there!"
Don Denton shook his head. "No," he said sharply, "he isn't in there;
he's probably in the other hut." He caught the girl's arm. "Let's take
a look, before something happens that's too big for me to handle."
They walked swiftly, their guns ready for instant firing, strangely
comforted by each other's presence. At the doorway of the second hut,
Jean again stood guard while the trouble shooter entered.
He stood for a moment within the doorway of the hut, his nerves
crawling when he saw an almost exact duplicate of the first scene. The
only difference lay in the number of men supine in their bunks: there
were but six here.
Don Denton winced, recognizing a corpse on a lower bunk as the
grey-haired father of the girl outside. He felt a sick futility beating
at his mind, when he remembered the reassuring words he had spoken to
the girl but a few short hours before.
He moved about the hut, seeking for the slightest clue as to the cause
of the men's deaths, finally turning back to the door, his search
unrewarded, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting theories and thoughts.
"Jean?" he said quietly, closed the door behind him on the horrible
scene within.
Blood drained from his face, leaving it suddenly haggard and drawn.
He whirled, with his back to the hut's wall, the ati-gun jutting
nervelessly before him in complete command of the clearing.
Not a thing moved; there was only the slightest of breezes. He felt the
sweat trickling down the flat planes of his cheeks, and the metal of
the hut felt incredibly warm against his back.
"_Jean?_" he called again, desperately.
There was only the muffled hollow vibration of the eternal waves
pounding against the island. No voice answered his cry.
Jean Palmer was gone as though she had never been.
* * * * *
Don Denton stood rigidly for a moment, a nameless fear tugging at his
mind, his blue eyes suddenly black with fear for the safety of the girl.
"Jean?" he called again, knowing that there would be no answer.
He ran lithely across the end of the clearing, burst into the first
living-hut, made a quick search, dashed back outside, a monstrous fear
and hate intermingled in his mind.
He went more slowly toward the first freighter, slipped within the
uncogged port, moved even more slowly as he made a complete search of
the shadowy corners of the hold and cabins. He found nothing but the
mold and rust that came from the steamy atmosphere.
The second freighter proved to be empty also. And he stood for a moment
outside its rusty length, his lips a thin white line, his eyes narrowed
into slits.
Then, never permitting himself to relax, he made a complete search of
the grounds, investigating the huts again, searching the rendering
sheds, finally stopping, his heart thudding painfully, in the exact
center of the clearing.
He considered the situation briefly, and his mind came to an abrupt
stop against a wall of thought. Either the girl had disappeared into
the _Lanka_ jungle because she thought she had seen something or
someone there, or she had been captured, silently, by the menace that
had murdered the fourteen men who lay in the bunks within the huts.
Don Denton backed slowly toward the _Comet_, his ati-gun tight in his
hand, never relaxing, ready to fire at the first sign of a living thing
that moved. He uncogged the door-port, slipped through, cogged the door
shut again. Then he searched the tiny ship from bow to stern, making
absolutely certain that he was alone.
Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he sagged into the
cushions of the pilot's seat, tried to make sense out of the sudden
disappearance of the girl.
Obviously, there was something wrong with the island. Fourteen men were
dead, _Lanka_ plants rotting in the shed, the freighters empty hulks on
the clearing's edge.
But what could that menace be? He knew, personally, that the only life
on Venus was in the oceans, a life that had not progressed far enough
to permit it to cope with the brains and skill of men.
Yet Jean Palmer was gone, taken by the--the _things_ that had slain
fourteen men without leaving wounds on their bodies.
Don Denton swore bitterly, his hands clutching the arms of the seat
until the knuckles were like polished bone. It was only too evident
that the terror had struck but recently; the men's bodies were not
decomposed in the slightest.
The trouble shooter came from his seat, slid back the panel of the arms
cabinet. He slipped into the silk-like folds of the cellu-ray suit,
first discarding the oxy-helmet. Then he fitted on the wide belt that
held the super ati-guns, checked them to make certain their loads were
at maximum power.
He felt a slight dizziness from the tainted air that had filled the
ship when the port had been opened, shrugged the feeling away with the
knowledge that his space-hardened body could easily combat the slight
toxic poison without effort.
He packed a small knapsack with a compact medicine box and food, left
a water bottle behind, knowing that he could find rain puddles in the
heavy _Lanka_ leaves.
The rain started then without warning, coming down in a solid smashing
sheet, the blasting wind rocking the _Comet_ with titanic strength. Don
Denton scowled through the storm, his vision stopped five feet from
the quartzite port window by the smashing curtain of water from the low
hanging clouds.
He paced the control room in tight anxiety, feeling the fear mounting
within him, conscious of the driving urgency of quick action, but
knowing that he could not fight the torrential downpour.
The rain battered down in a solid sheet for more than an hour.
And then the rain was over, and there was only the eerie silver light
reflected from the clouds. Don Denton uncoiled impatiently from his
seat, fitted on the knapsack, slipped the oxy-helmet over his head,
tied the bottom strings about his throat.
He felt a momentary panic at the thought of stepping from the safety of
his ship on the land where death might strike unseen. Then he grinned
wryly, shrugged broad shoulders. He had his job to do, a job that he
had elected for himself. Too, there was the memory of Jean's presence
that drove him on. If for no other reason, he could not desert the girl
who had expressed such complete faith in himself.
He twisted the cogs of the port, set the vibra-ray so that no one else
could open the door unless he was along. He slipped a bit on the mud of
the clearing, turned, slammed the port shut. Then, with a super ati-gun
in his right hand, he started across the clearing toward the break in
the jungle that was obviously a path cut by the _Lanka_ hunters.
It was then that he halted, his eyes widening in surprise, the sound of
his breathing loud in his oxy-helmet. He swung in a complete circle,
stifling his gasp of wonder, feeling the fear knotting in his stomach,
and conscious of the scaly fingers of insanity plucking at his reason.
_For men moved about the rendering hut, and steam spurted from the tall
stacks._
Don Denton half-crouched, and a soundless snarl of amazement twisted
his lips. His eyes flashed from the working men around the clearing,
blinked bewilderedly at what they saw.
Or, rather, what they didn't see.
For the freighters were gone, vanished from where they had been, only
deep gouges in the ground to show that they had ever landed.
III
Don Denton swore soundlessly to himself, and the gun sagged momentarily
in his hand. He felt the insane desire to laugh, fought down the
feeling with an iron will.
This was too much; this was carrying things too far. Those men moving
about the rendering shed were dead, so dead that there had been no
pulse of heart-beats in their veins. Yet they walked and worked with a
smooth efficiency about the shed five hundred feet away.
And the freighters had vanished into the clouds. Yet that, too, was
impossible; for the rocket blasts would have created such a roar in the
air that he could not have missed their going.
It was as though his mind had tricked him, had conjured chimeras and
mirages out of the air to strip his reason away.
He stiffened, the gun lifting in his hand, as one of the men working
about the shed turned and ran directly down the field. He gasped
silently, recognizing the greyed hair and ruddy face of Jim Palmer.
His hand snapped to a small button on his helmet.
"Hold it, Palmer, don't come any closer!" His voice roared from the
tiny annunciator built into the top of his helmet.
Jim Palmer skidded to a stop, menaced by the ati-gun, fell, sprawling
in the green mud, as his sudden stop tripped him on the treacherous
ground. Amazement made a round O of his mouth, and the glad greeting
faded from his eyes.
"What the hell, Denton?" he said sharply. "Have you gone space batty?"
Don Denton laughed without humor, shifted the gun muzzle slightly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not taking any chances on
anything until I find out what's going on!"
"What do you mean: 'What's going on'?" Jim Palmer pushed himself to his
feet, wiped slimy mud onto his breeches' legs. "Hell," he finished,
"all of us thought you were dead!"
"You--," Don Denton swallowed, blinked desperately, "You thought I was
dead?" he croaked.
"Why, sure!" Jim Palmer waved an expressive hand. "We tried to get into
your ship for more than a week, but couldn't. And we could see you
crumpled in the pilot's seat. So we figured you had died."
"Look, Palmer," Don Denton said, "I like jokes as well as the next
spacer. But I don't like the smell of this one! Now, what's the set-up
here?"
"Well, it's just like the one I had on island Seven. I--"
Don Denton's voice was like chilled steel. "Keep up that clowning," he
snapped, "and I'll blow it out of you with an ati-gun blast!"
Jim Palmer paled, took a backward step. "Now, look, Denton," he said
placatingly, "I'm not looking for a fight with you; I've always figured
we were friends. If you've got some gripe, get it off your chest, and
maybe we can get it straightened out!"
Don Denton felt insanity growing in his mind. He sucked in a deep
breath, never taking his eyes from Palmer's sweat-streaked face. He
didn't know what was going on, could not find a coherent answer for
anything, and the empty feeling it left within him frightened him as he
had never felt fear before.
Less than an hour before, he had locked himself in his ship, after
seeing fourteen dead men in the huts and after Jean had disappeared;
and now Jim Palmer was telling him that that had happened more than
a week before. Too, he was implying that Don Denton was mentally
unbalanced.
Don Denton then felt the prescience of an alien presence at his back.
He whirled, spun to one side, his finger tight on the firing stud of
the atomic gun in his fist.
Then, his face working in surprise, he turned slowly completely about,
finally facing Jim Palmer again. His eyes went wide, when he saw the
furtive, fearful steps the other was taking toward the safety of the
rendering shed.
"Well, Denton," Palmer said worriedly, "I'll talk to you later."
"Stand right where you are!" There was a quiver to the trouble
shooter's voice despite his iron control. "I've just started to ask
questions. First, where's Jean?"
"Why she went back to Earth on the _Moonstone_, the larger freighter.
That was four days ago. She was pretty well broken up when she thought
you were dead."
Don Denton's forehead washboarded in thought. "There's something fishy
here that I don't understand," he said, "but I'm going to get to the
bottom of it."
"Look, Denton," Palmer's tone was solicitous. "Why don't you let
Carter, the doctor, take a look at you. I mean no offense; but you
sound as if you either had a concussion or a touch of space fever." He
gestured comfortingly. "Come on, take off your helmet, and the Doc'll
find out what's wrong."
* * * * *
Don Denton was fumbling at the lace of his light copper helmet
unconsciously, before he realized what he was doing. For some unknown
reason, he felt that Palmer might be right and that he might have some
brain injury. Then some vague stubbornness filled his mind, driving
away his sudden compliance. His free hand snapped to his belt, whipped
out the second ati-gun.
"How is it that you and your men are walking around?" he asked, "I
could have sworn you were dead?"
He waited for the other's answer, conscious of an agonizing headache
that had sprung out of nowhere. He still felt that he and Palmer were
not alone, but his quick whirl a moment before had failed to disclose
any lurker in the vicinity.
And now, for the first time, he saw the eyes of Jim Palmer clearly.
There was something in them that he could not understand, a pleading
to be understood that escaped his senses. And the something that was
in them was oddly at variance with the smile on the ruddy face and the
reassuring words.
"You must have seen us when we were asleep," Jim Palmer explained,
"After working on these _Lanka_ plants for so long a time, you get such
a slow steady heart action that it takes a stethoscope to find it."
"Maybe?" Don Denton said skeptically. "But I still think you were dead."
Jim Palmer laughed, the sound a long booming roll of mirth that drew
curious glances from the workers at the rendering shed. His lips
writhed back, and his shoulders shook with merriment, but his eyes
never changed expression.
"Do we _look_ dead?" he asked mirthfully.
"It isn't what you look like, it's what you are that counts," Don
Denton countered. "I've seen Martian Zombies that got around pretty
well."
"Yes," Jim Palmer nodded. "I've seen them. But they don't breathe or
eat; and I can assure you that my men and I do both."
He stepped forward, stretched his hand in a friendly gesture. "Come
on," he finished, "put away your guns, and come meet the men. Maybe the
Doc had better take a look at you, too; you don't look so well, you've
probably got a touch of fever giving you hallucinations."
Steam hissed from the muddy ground between them as the trouble shooter
fired his left hand gun. "I'm not joking," he snapped. "Make a move I
don't like, and I'll be damned certain you're dead!"
Jim Palmer sucked in his breath with an audible gasp, and muscles
rippled in his heavy shoulders as his arms came up in a threatening
gesture.
"You're making a mistake, Denton," he said brittlely.
And, without warning, his face white and strained, he sprang at the
other, his whipping arms smashing the guns aside.
* * * * *
The twin ati-guns roared in a wailing scream of unleashed power, their
released streams of energy charring the ground, as Don Denton's hands
clenched in sudden reflex.
Then the guns were hammered aside, and the bull-like body of Jim
Palmer was straining at the trouble shooter's lithe strength. For
one interminable instant, Don Denton wavered on his feet, then he
went backward, carried by the other's weight, his mind numbed by the
paralyzing shock that came from a sledge-like fist hammering at his
chest.
He rolled as he fell, twisted, and his right hand lashed out in a
desperate effort to reach one of the fallen guns. A heavy knee pinned
his arm to the ground, and he gasped from Palmer's weight on his chest.
He arched his body, tossed Palmer to one side, smashed at him with
a two-handed attack that hurled the heavy man a dozen feet away. He
slipped as he tried to follow his advantage, felt Palmer's hands
tearing at the globe of his oxy-helmet. He felt a lace break below his
chin, and then his right hand came up in a vicious right cross.
Palmer sagged, half unconscious from the blow, went entirely slack, as
the trouble shooter crossed his left and then his right.
Don Denton crouched for a moment, staring into the blank face of the
camp manager, his chest heaving, feeling a slight dizziness as the air
of Venus mingled with that of his damaged oxy-helmet.
Then the wailing hiss of an ati-gun brought him to his feet. He dived
for his twin guns, turned, raced for the safety of the _Comet_, feeling
the tingle of released energy as his cellu-ray suit dissipated the
shock of a direct ati-blast on his back.
He fired twice, as a warning gesture, at the men streaming from the
rendering shed, smiled grimly as the tight knot of pursuers broke into
individuals.
And then he was at his ship, the vibra-ray lock swinging the port open
automatically. He spun through the port, cogged it shut behind him,
sagged against its solid friendliness, utterly worn with the furious
action of the past few minutes.
Gradually, his breathing slowed to normal, and some of the unnatural
fright of the past moments loosened their icy clutch from about his
heart. He removed his oxy-helmet, dropped it carelessly to the floor,
went slowly to the control room of the ship. He stared from the
quartzite port, his brow furrowing in puzzlement.
Two of the _Lanka_ workers were helping the stunned Palmer to his feet,
while the rest of the men gazed woodenly toward the _Comet_. Then, as
though turned by some common command, the entire group whirled, stalked
back across the field, disappeared within the rendering shed.
Don Denton shook his head in bewilderment, sank tiredly into the
pilot's seat, found one of his carefully rationed cigarettes in a panel
box. Touching a radi-light to its end, he leaned back in the cushions,
drew slowly on the fragrant smoke.
"Whew!" he sighed explosively, winced when his exploring fingers found
the great bruise on his chest where Palmer had struck so viciously.
He went over the entire, bizarre situation point by point; and as the
moments passed he made less sense out of the entire proceedings. He
couldn't figure the slightest of reasons from what was happening. He
tried to rationalize the events, ended at a blind alley of thinking.
First, he had the fact that the _Lanka_ shipments had failed to make
their scheduled appearances. So he had been sent to investigate. Jean
Palmer had come along, ostensibly to see her father. Then, after
landing, he had killed some Venusian slug, and found fourteen dead men
in their bunks. Right after that, Jean had disappeared into thin air.
An hour and a half later, the dead men were alive, and he had been
attacked by Jim Palmer, whose friend he thought he was.
Don Denton scowled bleakly into space. This set-up was too screwy for
him! He thought for a moment of rocketing into space and bringing back
the Space Patrol to make a complete investigation.
His blue eyes narrowed abruptly, as he caught sight of the perpetual
calendar on the wall. Hell! It was still the same day as the day he had
arrived on Venus.
Which meant that Jim Palmer had lied.
He snapped his fingers in sudden thought. Palmer had not tried to
injure him, instead, he had merely tried to remove the oxy-helmet.
And that meant another mystery. For Palmer knew that the faintly
tainted air of Venus would not knock out the trouble-shooter.
The trouble-shooter growled deep in his throat, crushed out the
cigarette, stood and paced to the port window. He frowned from the
port, watched the men coming toward the rocket ship. He felt no
uneasiness, for he knew that the hull would be impervious to any
ati-blasts they might fire in trying to force an entrance.
Then he stiffened, the blood draining from his face.
For walking quietly in the middle of the tight group was Jean Palmer.
Don Denton swore briefly, didn't move. He watched, as the group came
quietly to a halt a hundred feet from the _Comet_, their tightness
melting away as they stopped.
Then Don Denton saw Jim Palmer lift a heavy strip of leather belt,
swing it with a brutal viciousness at the slender shoulders of his
daughter.
Don Denton whipped around, a white hot rage blazing in his mind, his
breath a choking mass in his throat, as he dashed for the port door. He
uncogged it with trembling hands, pushed it open, dropped through, the
ati-guns cold in his sweaty hands.
He ran toward the silent group, conscious that Palmer's arms was
lifting for another blow. His hand swept up for a snap-shot.
"Drop that gun, Denton," Palmer snapped.
Don Denton snarled soundlessly, squared the muzzle of the ati-blaster
on Palmer's broad chest, squeezed the firing stud.
Then a great paralysis seemed to fill his rangy body. He came to a dead
stop, his guns still jutting before him, but utterly without the will
to press the firing studs.
"Holster both guns, Denton," Jim Palmer barked.
Instantly, without a word, the trouble shooter's hands flicked the twin
guns back into their sheaths. He stood rigidly, great veins ridging his
temples, then all resistance went from his body as he waited for the
other to approach.
* * * * *
Jim Palmer halted but a few feet from the trouble shooter, the leather
strap dangling from his right hand, his feet wide-braced. He bent
forward a trifle, stared directly in Don Denton's eyes.
"Can you hear me, Denton?" he asked quietly.
Don Denton fought the unbreakable control that held his mind and body
in complete abeyance. Veins stood in high relief on his forehead, and
perspiration rolled down his cheeks. He gagged a bit from the noxious
air, tried to turn his head from Palmer's piercing gaze.
"I can hear you, Palmer," he said woodenly.
"Fine." There was still that _something_ far back in Palmer's eyes, but
there was absolutely no expression on his face. "Now, this is what you
are to do: You will act as the pilot on the _Moonstone_ for the rest of
us men. We are turning pirates, and intend to set up our headquarters
here. You will get your instruments and whatever else you need from
your ship; we leave within the hour."
Don Denton turned without volition, and even the hypnotic control that
directed him could not keep the gasp of astonishment from his throat.
For there on the edge of the clearing, exactly as they had been before,
were the two freighters that had vanished so mysteriously thirty
minutes before.
But the astonishment was immediately erased from his mind, and he
turned robot-like toward the _Comet_. He caught one flashing glimpse of
the emotionless faces of the men and Jean Palmer, then he paced slowly
toward the gaping port of the scouter.
Jim Palmer walked quietly at his side, staring straight ahead, no
emotion touching his ruddy features.
Don Denton tried to think, but a soft impenetrable band of nothingness
seemed to absorb all of his thoughts. His only thought was of the
command he had just received, and, strangely, that thought seemed to be
a perfectly natural thing.
"You go in first, Denton," Palmer said quietly.
The trouble shooter obeyed silently, climbing through, standing rigidly
until the other had joined him. Then he turned, stepped forward. His
breath whooshed in a startled gasp, as his right foot stepped squarely
on the dropped oxy-helmet, and then he was falling forward, his hands
outstretched in a futile effort to regain his balance.
He felt his head strike the wall, struggled vainly to get back to his
feet. Then dull blackness wiped all consciousness from his brain.
IV
He couldn't have been out for more than a second. He blinked his eyes
shook his head slightly when he saw the tiny box of the gravity-rotor
over his head, shifted a bit so that he gazed squarely at Jim Palmer.
He laughed then, feeling the tight control-band gone from his mind,
sensing the advantage that had come back to him. He twisted a bit,
still not understanding all that had happened, and his mouth opened in
surprise at what he saw.
There were two of them, two grub-like slugs resting quiescently on the
metal floor, each of them the exact duplicate of the thing he had shot
upon landing on Venus.
All of the maelstrom disappeared then from his mind, and his thinking
grew crystal clear. He saw Jim Palmer bending toward him, and then the
ati-guns were in his hands, and their wailing crescendos of unleashed
power filled the _Comet_ with screaming echoes.
For an interminable instant, the slugs seemed to absorb the ati-rays,
then they collapsed into puddles of obscene flesh that disappeared into
charred flakes of ash.
Don Denton lay where he was, the guns silent in his hands, seeing the
intelligence that flashed into Jim Palmer's eyes.
"Oh, my God!" Jim Palmer said stupidly, stared at the strap he still
held in his heavy hand.
Don Denton rolled from beneath the gravity-rotor, came to his feet,
dodged around the dazed man, tugged open the nearest panel in the wall.
He took two small, belt gravity-rotors from a shelf, handed one to
Palmer, buckled the other about his head.
"Put that rotor about your head, Palmer," he ordered. "We've got some
work to do."
He switched on his own rotor, felt nausea cramp at his stomach when the
gravity field pulled at his neck muscles. Hooking his foot beneath the
ship's rotor, he helped Palmer fasten the rotor over his greyed hair,
then handed the older man one of the ati-guns.
"Come on," he said. "We've got some hunting to do."
He led the way, jumping from the port-door, the gun blasting in his
hand, conscious of the _Lanka_ manager's bulky body at his side.
They went side by side down the field, the wailing roar of their guns
screaming in the air, the slugs dying hideously, one by one.
And then Jean was in Don Denton's arms, her slender shoulders shaking
in a torrent of sobs, and he was soothing her with a clumsy gentleness
that felt strange and good to him.
* * * * *
They sat in the control room of the great freighter, _Moonstone_, their
faces were turned to where Don Denton stood at the control panel.
The trouble shooter grinned at the fifteen people that made up his
audience, and he summed up all of his thoughts and theories.
"Those slugs," he explained, "were little more than animated brains.
They lived somewhere in the oceans, and probably discovered the
_Lanka_ camps by accident. They had no ways of subduing you men by
physical means, because of their grub-like bodies, so they took control
of your minds. Unluckily, they failed to gain control of one of you men
and of both of the freighter pilots; and the three men tried to escape
in a small rocket. The rocket crashed, killing all three of the men."
Jim Palmer nodded. "That's what I've got figured out," he said, "But
I've just got a hazy memory of the past three months."
"Well," Don Denton continued, "these slugs must have got the idea of
going to Earth and the other inhabited planets, and taking control of
them. But they needed your help and a space pilot to transport you and
them. They put all of you in a cataleptic state, while waiting for some
space pilot to appear. They left a guard, the slug I shot down the
moment I begin searching the camp. But before he died, he sent out a
call that brought a single slug into camp."
Jean Palmer shivered, held tightly to the trouble shooter's hand. "I
know," she said, "I took off my helmet to adjust the oxygen valve, and
I looked up to see that whitish thing at the corner of the hut. Before
I could call out, something seemed to grab my mind--and then I was
running toward the jungle. I tried to scream to you, when you found me
gone, but I couldn't move."
Don Denton smiled, tightened his strong fingers over the girl's. "It's
fairly easy to reconstruct from there on," he said carefully. "The
slugs tried to get control of my mind. But because thought is of an
electrical nature, absolute control wouldn't pass through the copper of
my oxy-helmet. They set a scene to make me think I was crazy, and sent
Palmer to take off my helmet."
"I remember that," Jim Palmer said thoughtfully.
Don Denton nodded. "Well," he went on, "their mental control was
enough that it played tricks with my mind. They blanked out my vision
when I looked at them, and later, they blacked out the sight of the
freighters, trying to make me think that I was so crazy I should take
off my helmet for an examination."
"I escaped from Palmer, went back to the _Comet_, then raced out of
the ship to save Jean from a beating." He shook his head slightly when
he saw the pain on Palmer's face. "Of course it was just a trick to
get me outside without my helmet. Well, I fell for it; and the slugs
took control, making me believe that Jim Palmer was the master mind
engineering everything. But on entering the _Comet_, I slipped and
fell beneath the ship's gravity-rotor. The field of gravity-energy
neutralized the electricity of the thought waves--just as it blanks out
the power of a flashlight--and I was able to think again. I blasted the
slugs, got two portable rotors and fastened them to Palmer and myself,
and the two of us cleaned out the slugs."
Don Denton flicked his gaze about the room. "Now, if you men intend
to stay, you've got to wear tiny gravity-rotors on your heads. It
apparently isn't the quantity of power put out that blankets the
thought waves, it's possible to use a very weak power. I don't think
the slugs will try anything again, but if they do, you shouldn't have
any trouble getting rid of them."
"We're staying on," Jim Palmer said grimly, nodded approvingly at the
confident glances given him by his men. "And I hope those damned things
show up again. I'd like nothing better than to take an ati-blaster to a
bunch of those uncanny devils."
He grinned suddenly, looked squarely into Don Denton's eyes.
"How about staying on for awhile?" he asked, "There might be a little
excitement on this planet that you could dig up?"
Don Denton shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "but I've got a date with
some friends of mine on Mars; we're going to explore some of the new
tombs they discovered two months ago. I guess I'll be getting along."
He felt the insistent tugging of Jean's slender fingers on his. A smile
lifted the corners of his lips, and he bent over, kissed her with a
quick possessiveness.
"My mistake," he said warmly, "_we'll_ be getting along!"
He and Jean were smiling into each other's eyes then, reading there a
future that held many promises of adventure and love and--and things
that would be utterly nothing to others than themselves.
