The Thing of Venus
Date: 2020-05-09T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Adventure stories; Rescues -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Drug addicts -- Fiction

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Title: The Thing of Venus

Author: Wilbur S. Peacock

Illustrator: Leo Morey

Release date: May 9, 2020 [eBook #62076]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62076

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THING OF VENUS ***

THE THING OF VENUS

By Wilbur Peacock

On far-off steaming Venus, three
Earthlings faced awful death. And
the only man who could save them
from the veiled planet's unknown
THING was Kenton—disgraced,
dope-sodden ex-Space Patrolman.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The gailang gas hung in low soft waves over the motley crowd of the tiny, hidden gailang den. Laughter rose hysterically from the trio of women slummers, as the gas tore their natural reserves and modesty into shreds. A scarred space-pirate drooled over a handful of Martian moon-diamonds, the disruptor gun handy to his gnarled fist. The gas-tender, his flat nose buried in a tiny mask, watched the crowd of inscrutable eyes, his hands flickering, now and then, over the pet-cock studded panel before him.

Val Kenton lolled back in his padded booth, his eyes glazed with the drugging gas, his right hand fumbling aimlessly at the pipe resting on the battered table. His face was slack and whiskered, but even two months of lying drugged could not take the firmness from his mouth or the squareness from his jaw.

He didn't see the two men wearing the blue uniforms of the S.P. come in, nor did he feel their heavy hands as they lifted him between them. He was smiling slightly in his sleep, his subconscious completely concerned with a Martian dancing flower, when the two men tossed him into the rear seat of a cruiser and sent it speeding toward the grim forbidding walls of the S.P.'s prison.

Val Kenton came to with the acrid bite of neutralizing gas twisting his stomach in violent nausea. He retched, turned on his side, reaching automatically for the gas-pipe. His hand encountered nothing, and he opened dazed eyes, stared uncomprehendingly around.

"Leave me alone!" he snarled, "I paid your bloody money for a private booth!"

A heavy palm smashed across his face, brought him, raging, to his feet. He lashed out with both hands, felt a grip of steel on his shoulder whirl him and throw him back to the laced-steel bunk.

"Sober up, Kenton," a hard voice snapped, "I haven't got time to waste."

Val Kenton came slowly to a sitting position, rubbed his aching forehead with his hand, finally forced his bleary eyes to focus on the uniformed man standing so grimly before him.

The man was blocky, his grizzled hair a stiff shock above a craggy face. He wore the uniform of an S.P. colonel, with the triple bars that only a charter member of the Space Patrol could wear. His eyes were unfriendly as he stared at the unshaven, younger man before him, but deep in their gray depths was a terrified panic that he could not completely conceal.

"Snap out of it, Kenton," he barked.

Val Kenton swayed drunkenly to his feet, saluted insolently.

"Captain Val Kenton, of the Cruiser Pegasus, reporting for duty, sir," he said blurrily, mockingly, "Day's orders, sir?"

He stared about the cell, hate growing in his eyes, the jut of his chin becoming even more stubborn. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and he lit it with a glow-lighter, as his gaze grew speculative.

"Well?" he prompted nastily.

"Look, Val," the colonel sat on the bunk edge. "I need your help."

Val Kenton laughed, and there was a deep hate and bitterness in the tones that brought the blood rushing to the patrolman's features.

"You go to hell, you damned, snobbish, slave-driver," Val Kenton snapped coldly, "you got me cashiered out of the Patrol; now I wouldn't like anything better than to push a disruptor into your belt and press the firing stud!"

The blocky patrolman's knuckles were white, the muscles ridged and taut, but he kept his voice even and unruffled.

"I'm not asking for myself," he said grimly, "this is for Elise."

"Elise? What have I got to do with her any more?"

"She's marooned somewhere on Venus—may be dead on one of the islands." The colonel's voice broke despite his iron control. "For God's sake, Val," he finished desperately, "you've got to find her and bring her back!"

But Val Kenton was not listening. His mind was far away, drawing back the memories of long languorous nights beneath a tropical moon, remembering the soft shush-shush of waves lapping at the shore, of the whisper of the trade winds through tree fronds. He was recalling the lithe grace of Elise's slender body as they whirled to the muted strains of a hidden orchestra. He was conjuring back again the perfume of her hair and the softness of her voice as she whispered to him of her love and her plans.

And then he was back in the present, feeling the solid grip upon his shoulders, seeing the fear reflected in Matthew Barber's eyes. He felt the first twinge of fear himself, and his face hardened and grew stiff.

"Elise on Venus?" he asked, "what the devil is she doing there?"

"She went with Tony Andrews. He was finishing the job you started, and she stowed away in his ship. When I found the note she left, it was too late to do anything."

The blur of hate in Val Kenton's mind then was a savage thing that seemed to drain all strength from his body. He whirled, faced the gray stone wall, afraid the other would see the murder-lust that lay so near the surface of his eyes.

"To hell with Tony," he grated between set jaws, "he was the one who squealed on me!"

Colonel Barber's mouth tightened in distaste, and for one interminable second his hand toyed with the butt of his disruptor pistol; and then he was his old competent self again.

"He only did his duty, Val," he said slowly, "after all, you broke your oath and the Interplanetary laws, when you smuggled those drugs and gasses from Mars."

Val Kenton turned, blazing eyed, and so twisted were his features that the patrolman took an involuntary step backward.

"I swore I'd get him for that!" he spat sibilantly, "I swore I'd get revenge for what he did to me! And now this is my chance." He shook his head. "I'll not help rescue him," he stated flatly.

"But Lord, Val, you can't let Elise and Johnson, the chemist, die just because of an insane hate against a man who did not harm you maliciously!"

"I can and I will! Hell, what do I care what happens to them? Tony betrayed me, got me sent up for trial. Elise dropped me like a red-hot comet. And you cast the deciding vote that kicked me out of the service with a reputation that keeps me out of any ship that flies." His hand moved forcibly. "No, I'll never lift a hand to save any of you from anything!"

He slumped to the bunk, sucked absently on the cigarette, his wide shoulders shaking from the violent emotions that sped through his turbulent mind. He heard the sudden indrawn gasp of the colonel's breath, nurtured a turgid satisfaction that the other was in trouble with which he could not cope.

"You absolutely refuse to help find the girl you loved, and to endeavor to rescue her and the others?" Barber said tensely.

Sudden vicious slyness darkened Val Kenton's eyes. "I didn't say that," he countered, "before I make a definite decision, we've got a little talking to do."

"I'll promise anything within reason."

"I want back my old rating; I want command of the finest ship in the service; and I want a Presidential pardon."

Colonel Barber's face had aged twenty years; he was suddenly an old broken man. He shook his head slowly, defeat in his gray features.

"I can't do any of those things, Val," he said slowly, "and you know it. But I will bring all the weight I can swing your way, to clear your name and give you a new start."

Val Kenton laughed, but there was no amusement in his eyes or features. "I've got you over a barrel," he snapped, "you've got to play my way. I'm the only living man who has ever penetrated Venus' cloud envelope, the only human who can find those islands and effect a rescue before Elise and Tony and Johnson starve to death—or are killed by attacking Venusians. And you've heard my demands; either meet them, or the whole Patrol can't find them in time to save their lives."

Colonel Barber shifted ponderously, his face like chiseled granite. "That is your final word?"

"That's my final word."

"But, Val—?"

"Get out, and leave me alone! Come back when everything is settled, and we'll talk business. Until then, don't bother me."

"You dirty, slimy little rat!" Colonel Barber slapped Val Kenton squarely across the mouth. "I thought maybe Elise was right, and that you had just gone crooked for a moment; but now I can see just what kind of a man you really are." He spat directly into the seated man's face. "I'll go myself, before I get on my knees to you!"

Val Kenton came lithely to his feet, and his driving fist rocked the old patrolman hard against the wall. He followed his advantage, smashing with both hands, his eyes sullen and hate-filling. He laughed aloud as blood spurted from Barber's face.

And then the patrolman rallied, striking back with the power and precision that came from forty years of Patrol work. His right hand slashed out, drove the lighter man aside, his left darting in for a neck blow that partially paralyzed Kenton's left arm.

They stood and slugged for seconds, their breathing harsh and strained, their hands like brutal bludgeons smashing—smashing—smashing.

And Colonel Barber's physical condition gave him the edge. He took the offensive, driving Val Kenton before him, releasing his grief and terror in a wild flurry of blows that stretched the other on the cement flooring.

Val Kenton went down, tried to force his arms to lift him again. There was a dull respect in his mind for the other man, but it vanished almost instantly as agony from the patrolman's blows flooded his body. He shoved again with both hands on the floor, then crumpled into a fold of blackness that closed instantly over everything.

Colonel Barber leaned gaspingly against the wall, his eyes calmly speculative as he watched the feeble twitching of the unconscious Kenton. After a bit, he moved to the cell door, pounded for attention, gave quick orders when the guard arrived. Moments later, four guards carried Val Kenton's slack body out of the cell and up the ramp that led to the outside.

They placed Val Kenton as directed, then left silently, their eyes puzzled as they glanced at Colonel Barber bent over the note book in the bright glow of the landing-field lights. Three minutes later, a scout cruiser fled with roaring jets into the blackness of star-sprinkled space. It took a high trajectory for seconds, then curved into a flattened arc that pointed a few degrees ahead of the green speck of light that was Venus, in the direction of the planet's flight.

Slowly, the rocket-blast dwindled in size until it was a tiny reddish speck in space. After a bit, even that was gone—and there was only the blackness of nothing, against which the stars shone like tiny diamonds on a black velvet drape.

Val Kenton came slowly back to consciousness, his senses blurred and distorted. He opened his eyes, blinked dazedly when they caught sight of shiny familiar instruments on the panel before him. He tried to move, found that he was strapped to the cushions of the pilot seat. He licked dry lips, shook his head, wondering if the beating he had taken had driven him insane. He felt the steady rhythmic vibration of the pounding rockets in the ship, and he relaxed as suddenly as if a dam had broken within his mind.

He saw the note then, for the first time. It was clipped to the instrument panel, and was evidently a sheet of paper torn from a note book. He scowled thoughtfully, lifted it from the clip, tilted it a bit so that he could read it in the radi-light's glow.

"Val, (he read) you have no choice now. By the time you read this, I will have issued orders for you to be shot on sight as a traitor. Your only chance to save your life lies in rescuing Elise and the others. I'm sorry that I must use this method of forcing you to do what you would do if you had not let your hate warp your mind as it has done.

"Elise and the others are marooned on an island they said was shaped like a turtle. Their radio went dead immediately after the single message.

"Find them and bring them back, Val, and I'll do everything in my power to clear your name."

BARBER.

Val Kenton sat for a long time, reading and rereading the note, really understanding the gravity of the situation for the first time. He crumpled the note in his capable hand, gazed unseeingly about the tiny cabin.

And then anger drew white lines down his face, and his hands reached out to the controls to swing the ship toward Mars. He knew only too well how hopeless the task was that had been given him; not one man in a million had a chance to bring it to a successful conclusion.

His hands slowly relaxed then, dropping from the control studs, sinking back to his lap. He knew that he had no choice in the matter, for, should he not try, he would be disrupted into disassociated atoms by the first Patrol ship that sighted him and his tiny cruiser.

Slowly, the anger faded from his mind, and clear reasoning came in its place. His forehead washboarded with thought, and memories took a coherent pattern.

He remembered the turtle-shaped island now, recalling that it moved in the current of what he had called the North Flow. As to the present position, that could be found only by searching.

Val Kenton swore bitterly, tiredly.

Five years before, he would have welcomed the adventure and danger that faced him—but then he had had a brilliant future to look forward to, and he had had the vitality of youth with which to combat any danger. Now, he was but the hulk of the man he had been, his body shattered by the drugs he had used in ever increasing quantities for months. He had no future now, that is, a future of the type and quality that might have been his; instead with his record, he could look forward to only a future of smuggling and piloting pirate craft, with a blasting death waiting for his first wrong move.

His expedition had been the last attempt to explore the water world of Venus. Five big expeditions had failed before him, their survivors never leaving the planet they had sought to conquer. He had succeeded in searching Venus and returning, only because he had never landed his ship on any of the floating islands that made up the only stable landing fields anywhere in the great wastes of water.

He had followed the currents of waters, mapping them as best he could, charting the islands that rode them like great boats, but some deep instinct had kept him from landing his ship. He had seen no signs of life on the planet, had found no traces of the expeditions that had preceded him. At last, satisfied that he could make a larger and more complete examination at a later date, he had swung out of the Venusian clouds and sent the rocket roaring toward his base on Mars. It was on his return to Earth from Mars that he had smuggled the drugs and gasses whose discovery had brought him before the Court Martial, where his rank and reputation had been stripped from him forever.

He recalled those memories now, and his features were hard and bitter. Then, as suddenly as though it had never been, the expression faded from his face, and he was grinning ruefully at his blurred reflection in the shiny surface of the cabin wall.

His deep eyes flicked almost casually over the complex instruments before him on the panel, and his mind instantly figured his position. His hands moved deftly over the studs, adjusting a few errors made by Colonel Barber in his haste; then he set the robot control and swung his pilot seat around to face the rear wall of the cabin.

He slid open a cabinet door, loosened his chest strap so that he might bend forward. He worked a cream into his stubbled face, used a paper towel to wipe away his beard. Then as best he could, using water sparingly, he gave himself a quick bath. Refreshed, he closed the cabinet, opened another at the first one's side. He ate ravenously of the condensed food, finally leaning back with a sigh of repletion. He felt better now, felt better than he had in months. He had the pounding hull of a Patrol Cruiser beneath his feet, and he had a definite mission to complete—and it was only now that he realized how much he had missed both.

He refused to think upon the fact that he was a patrolman again only by virtue of his imagination, instead, preferring to forget the years that had passed so horribly since he had had any command.

He reached out, gave a half turn to the inner pane of the polaroid, quartzite port, felt contentment filling his mind when he gazed into the nothingness of space. He saw the swinging of the stars, caught sight of the blue Earth far behind. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and he smoked it slowly, relishing the moment, feeling a presentiment that its equal might never come again.

He checked the automatic pilot again, then stretched back in his padded seat. His fingers fumbled at the switch that would flick on the "sleep" rays. For an interminable moment, he thought regretfully of the chaos he had made of his life. Then his finger tightened on the switch, and, as the nimbus of light swelled and pulsated from the protected globe above his head, drifted into a dreamless slumber that would end only when the cruiser was within the gravity field of Venus.

Venus was no longer a green point of light; it loomed ahead like some cottony ball whirling in space. The Patrol Cruiser circled it warily, Val Kenton's fingers resting lightly on the control studs of the instrument panel. He whistled tunelessly, as he brought the ship in closer and closer.

He pressed a firing stud, and the rocket ship nosed down toward the clouds below. For the first time in hours, there was a sense of movement as the batts of clouds rushed up to meet the ship. Now there was something breath-taking in the way that the cruiser seemed to be dropping.

The first tendrils of hazy clouds whipped about the ship. The thrumming of the rockets rose to a higher crescendo, and the force-screen's voltmeter leaped higher as the friction of the clouds tried to cremate the flashing ship.

And then there was only a gray darkness, all of the light of space nullified by the thicknesses of clouds.

Val Kenton sent the ship lower, his fingers playing over the studs like a master pianist playing a piano. He handled the ship with the instinctive ability that had made him famous as a patrolman.

Moments flowed one into the other, and the clouds seemed to press against the quartzite ports with a visible strength. Then the ship was through the clouds, and a thousand feet below the majestic ocean tossed and tumbled in a silent display of strength and ruthlessness that was spine-tingling to see.

Val Kenton's breath exploded with a tiny sigh of relief.

He felt again that sense of silent awe at the unreality of the scene below. For contrary to general belief, there was light on the surface of Venus. Because of the miles-deep thicknesses of clouds, scientists had long stated that there could be no illumination on the water-planet's surface.

On his first trip to Venus, Val Kenton had dispelled that conjecture; he had discovered that the sea was alive with an incredibly tiny marine worm. These worms glowed with the will o' the wisp paleness of a firefly, and the light generated by the billions of worms was reflected back from the low clouds with a pale brilliance that was startling.

Val Kenton remembered his first sight of the glowing ocean, felt again the thrill that had first touched his heart. He swung the space cruiser toward the north pole, peered tensely from the port. Beneath him, the milky ocean was a shifting, white-capped wash of silvery light, gleaming with a phosphorescent sheen, its turbulence a shifting kalaedoscope of shattered, intermingled colors glowing with every tint of the spectrum.

Val Kenton gasped suddenly; for, exploding from the water in a spray that resembled fire, a scaly blunt something suddenly appeared. For one second, its three hundred foot body was black against the water, and then, majestically, it slid from sight into the depths again.

Val Kenton whistled soundlessly, tensed with sudden horror, realizing how horrible an antagonist the creature could make against the puny frailty of a human.

He sent the ship hurtling northward, ever, ever faster, eyes seeking for one of the few islands that dotted the boundless ocean. For more than an hour, he sped, a thousand feet in the air, feeling fatigue clutching at him, his eyes growing strained and tired.

In the second hour of flight, he sighted the first island. He circled it warily, eagerly looking for the expedition's ship, feeling futility beating at him when he found nothing in the green, luxuriant jungle growth to show that humans had ever landed there.

He spun the ship in a tight circle, sent it flashing to the west, toward a low bit of blackness that hugged the water line. His eyes lighted, when he finally made out the turtle-like outline of the island. His lips were firm and his gaze intent as he circled the island slowly, searching for the blot of brightness that would be the terrestrial ship.

He saw it at last, tucked beneath the fronds of gigantic ferns, sent the cruiser roaring over it several times, hoping the rockets' echoes would bring any survivors into the open. His features tightened, when no one appeared, and he peered about for a landing place for his ship.

And as he turned, his sleeve caught on a knife switch, pulled it open.

There was an instant, gargantuan explosion of auxiliary rockets, and the Patrol cruiser went corkscrewing toward the island in an insane dive.

Val Kenton went utterly white, his hands darting for the controls, panic driving every bit of expression from his face. He cut all rockets with a swoop of one hand, then fired the two nose tubes in a frantic attempt to spin the ship into the air again.

He sensed, rather than saw, the upward rush of the tangled plants below. One second, he had, in which to regret the lack of precision caused by his drug-steeped body, and then the cruiser plowed into the jungle-like growth.

He was wrenched from his seat, the safety belts parting like rotten thread, and then he was smashed against the forward bulkhead. His hands groped feebly for support, and then he sagged unconscious, his body tossed back and forth in the tiny cabin as the ship plowed through the interlaced branches and vines to the muddy ground two hundred feet below.

With one final bounce, the Patrol ship struck the ground, slid on its side for a few yards, then came to a grinding halt, its nose crumpling a trifle as it smashed into the great trunk of a tree.

Val Kenton groaned feebly, opened his eyes to stare uncomprehendingly about the cabin of the rocket ship. He lay for seconds against the curved wall, utterly unnerved by the horror of that last flashing moment. He was afraid to move, certain that his injuries would be such that he would have been better off had he died in the crash.

At last, he moved his arms and legs tentatively, swearing amazedly when he found that, other than terrible aching bruises, he was unhurt. He came to his feet, examined the instrument panel, marvelling that his last conscious act had been the closing of switches on the panel.

He moved slowly, unscrewed the back panel, wriggled into the confines of the rocket chambers in the tail of the ship. He shook his head dully, when he discovered the fused catalyst feed. So seldom was such an accident, the ship's repair locker held nothing that could replace the feed.

He crawled back into the control cabin, slumped in the pilot's seat, fumbled for a cigarette. He felt whipped then, felt beaten in a way that he had never sensed. And then, moments later, he ground out the cigarette, opened the weapon cabinet.

He buckled on the twin hand guns at his waist, slung a disruptor rifle over his shoulder, then filled his pockets with condensed food. He filled a canteen, looped it over his free shoulder, stood for a long moment peering around the safety of the cabin.

Then he uncogged the entrance port, dropped lightly to the spongy ground. He crouched where he had fallen, his eyes flicking through the tangled growth, the twin guns in his hands, as he waited for the slight sound that might betoken a hidden enemy. He felt perspiration gathering on his forehead, dashed it away with the back of one hand. The air was sweet in his nostrils after the renewed air of the ship, and when he came slowly to his feet, he felt a surge of power in his body such as he had never known, due to the weakness of the gravity.

He moved from the safety of the ship, flicked the control of one gun until it gave only a narrow, slicing beam. He used the gun as an Earth native might use a bush knife, the pale beam cutting a path soundlessly before him. He moved swiftly along the path he created, alert for the first signs of danger, glancing now and then at the compass strapped to his wrist.

For minute after minute he walked, his mind intent with the problem that faced him. No longer was it a simple attempt to rescue three people from an unfriendly planet; now, if he failed, his life would be forfeit along with the others. His only chance of success lay in finding the others' ship and removing its catalyst feed for replacement of his wrecked one. That is, if the expedition's ship was so damaged that it could not fly, which was self-evident.

Val Kenton spat thoughtfully, paced steadily forward. He sensed vague superstitious terror tugging at his mind when he felt the matted jungle pressing at him from all sides. He peered about, wonder in his eyes, when he saw the gigantic ferns and strange unreal trees that grew in lush aboriginal splendor. He stopped in horror, when the blood-red blossom of a monster plant bent toward him, recognizing that it must be some weirdly evolved cousin of the fly-trap plant on Earth.

He side-stepped instinctively, stopped with his back against the scaly trunk of a giant fern. For the plant stretched toward him to the full extent of its pale stem, and he could see, deep within the orifice of the crimson blossom, an oozing of juices from back in the cup.

Val Kenton gagged at the simple horror of the blind insensate greed of the plant. He lifted his disruptor, drew the knife edge of its beam in a slashing movement across the stem. There was the faint vibration of a shrill note from the plant, then sap spurted from the severed stem—pumping as though from a beating heart!

"My God!" Val Kenton whispered to himself. "It's alive—like an animal."

And then, even as he watched, corruption bloated the carnivore plant and it collapsed into itself. Val Kenton grimaced, turned away. He swung his disruptor, clearing more path, jumped startledly when he felt something clutch at his ankle. He sprang aside, whirled, his weapon ready. He froze again into motionlessness.

For the monster plant was growing with incredible speed from the roots still imbedded in the swampy ground. A blind creeper swung like a cobra's head in a stealthy search for its prey, and then lifted high, a new monster blossom springing into being from the tip of the creeper. Within seconds, another flower surged against its stem in a futile attempt to reach the Earthman.

Val Kenton wiped the perspiration from his face, backed away from the plant. He shuddered involuntarily, blasted the entire plant out of existence with a sudden movement of his disruptor. Then, his eyes searching the jungle for more alien dangers, he began again to cut a path toward the expedition ship far across the island.

A shadow crossed his vision, and he glanced up to see something that looked like a cross between a fish and a bat flash between the heavy fronds of the fern-tops high overhead. He watched it for a moment, wondering if it were dangerous, then shrugged ruefully. If it were vicious, he would find out about it sooner or later.

His disruptor cleared a path then into a small clearing. He stepped out of the jungle, rested for a moment from the heavy walking, rechecking his compass bearing. It was then that he heard the startled cracks of high-powered disruptor rifles firing from a short distance away.

Whirling, he went in the direction of the sound, his twin guns clearing tangled vines and creepers from his path so swiftly that he went forward at a run. Cold sweat bathed his body, but his mind seemed to be a detached entity that watched the entire happening with a calm unhurried interest.

He didn't know why he ran; he had no particular reason to race to the rescue of the Earthpeople ahead—but the instinctive reactions of years of being a patrolman would not be denied.

He stumbled as he ran, his feet slipping and sliding in the ooze that lay but a few inches beneath the surface of the ground. His breath grew ragged in his throat, and a pain knifed at his side, but he kept up his steady running for minutes.

At last, he burst from the matted jungle into a clearing that led to the water's edge. He came to a stop, the sudden cessation of movement sending him to his hands and knees. From that position, he rolled until he was sitting, and the twin guns roared a steady stream of death at the fantastic creatures surging toward the half-buried space ship close at hand.

The Venusian creatures were like things out of a nightmare. They scuttled toward the ship like crabs on great jointed legs. Their bodies were covered with hair, and the marine worms within the hair made the beasts glow like great fluorescent lights.

Each had a globular body, from which a great pupilless eye stared blindly at the ship. They attacked in wave after wave, their numbers rolling from the turbulent sea in an apparently inexhaustible stream. The only sound they made was an almost inaudible scream that drove through Val Kenton's brain like a needle of fire.

He swung his guns, blasting creature after creature out of existence, shuddering at the horribleness of the scene, wondering if the creatures could ever be stopped.

Disruptors roared from the ship; but the angle made by the ship's landing was such that accurate firing was impossible. The shots flashing from the control cabin's ports could cover but a small portion of the attackers.

Val Kenton fired with increasing speed, the disruptor ray clearing a ragged hole in the monsters. In a detached sort of way, he saw one of the furry crabs clamber up the side of the ship. He saw it squat and a blue liquid pour from its body. He blew the creature into atoms, gaped in amazement when he saw the hole the liquid had eaten in the Permalloy metal of the ship. Incredulity lay deep in his eyes—for he knew only too well that even hydrofluoric acid had no effect on the metal of which patrol cruisers were made.

And then he was too busy to think. The Venusian beasts turned as though by an instinctive command and hurtled toward himself. He lifted his guns, erased the leaders as fast as they came. One gun went dead in his hand, and the ray of the other paled into redness. He came to his feet, dropped the hand guns, whipped the rifle from his back. He drew the muzzle flame like a spray of water across the screaming horrors that plunged at him, his mouth open in a soundless snarl, his eyes narrowed and vicious.

And so suddenly that he did not comprehend it for a moment, the attack was over, the nightmarish Venusians streaming back into the sea. Within a split-second, except for the obscene twitching of dead beasts on the steaming ground, the beach was empty.

Val Kenton sank onto his heels, unclamped his stiff fingers from the rifle. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, his breath hard and shallow. He felt reaction set in, and momentarily wished that he had a whiff of gailang gas to steady his nerves.

There was the clanging of metal on metal from the ship, and a man's head came cautiously into view. It stayed that way for a moment, and then a man in the uniform of a Patrol Captain clambered out of the port.

"Good God!" the Earthman heard the Captain say, "It's Val Kenton who was doing the damage outside!"

Val Kenton laughed then, chuckled with a dryness that was rather horrible to hear. Never, had he expected again to find himself a welcome friend of a Space Patrolman. And the fact that he had this Captain owing him gratitude struck him as ironically amusing.

But his laughter stilled almost instantly, when he saw the remembered features of the Captain. And the hate that had lain so deep within him for years flared into a white heat that seemed to cramp the muscles of his body.

"It's Val Kenton," he called. "And you owe me your life, you damned squealer!"

In that one instant, it took every bit of his self-control not to lift the rifle in his lap and blow the other into nothingness.

And then the moment was over, and he was coming to his feet, feeling the thudding of his heart in his chest, as Elise Barber came through the port and dropped lightly to the ground.

"Val!" Elise cried, and the gladness of her tone brought an agony of pain to the emotion he had thought he had stifled forever.

Val Kenton picked up his dropped guns, holstered them. He went forward slowly, the rifle swinging in one relaxed hand. Despite himself, he felt a thrill of companionship at the warmth of Tony Andrews' handshake.

"Hello, Tony," he said quietly.

"Hello, Val," the Patrolman answered. "Man, it's good to see you!"

Elise caught Val Kenton's hand, drew him toward the ship.

"Let's not stand out here," she said impulsively. "Come inside, where we can talk." She drew a deep breath, her blue eyes sparkling. "Oh, it's good for the three of us to be together again!"

Val Kenton's smile was stiff and mechanical, as they clambered through the port into the ship's interior. He, too, felt the completeness of the moment; yet, deep in his mind, he knew that the old days of friendly camaraderie were gone forever.

They sat in the comparatively large cabin of the expedition ship, cigarettes glowing, each trying to ease the tension that lay within them all. Val Kenton sat in the co-pilot's seat, the lines of five years of dissipation clearly etched in his tired face, his clothes torn and stained. He talked jerkily, trying to avoid the bad points of the past few days, striving to make the situation appear more bearable.

"It will be a fairly simple job to fix my cruiser," he said slowly. "Tony and I will use the catalyst feed from this ship to replace my fused one."

Tony Andrews grinned, laughter wrinkles in the corners of his clear eyes. He was trim and fit in his uniform, and there was an air of competence and adventurousness in his compact body.

"We could use this entire ship for spare parts," he said ruefully. "It will never fly again, after the damage those blasted Venusians did to it with that super digestive juice they discharged."

Johnson, the expedition's chemist, glanced up from a sheet of notes he had taken from his pocket. His eyes were mild and calm as he peered at Val Kenton.

"Most amazing thing I've ever seen," he commented. "The digestive juices of those crab-creatures will eat through glass as fast as water will move through tissue paper." He frowned. "It's just possible," he finished, thoughtfully, "that the liquid is in the nature of a weapon—particularly so, since those animals used it in an effort to reach us within the ship."

Elise shuddered. "Please," she said, "talk about something more cheerful! I can still see those hideous eyes staring at us just the way they did during that attack."

Val Kenton nodded cheerfully, filling his senses with the beauty and radiance of the girl. It came to him now as never before how much he had lost when he had turned traitor to himself and his oath.

"Well, for a starter, what did you discover before you were disabled?"

Johnson came to his feet, picked up a rifle. "I'll take a look at some of those bodies outside," he said. "I'm just a chemist, but maybe I can pick up a few facts that will be of some use to the next expedition to visit here."

He clambered through the port, the sounds of his shoes on the metal strangely loud. Behind him, he left a rather strained silence, which was broken at last by Tony Andrews.

"This is the story," he began quietly. "The trip to Venus was just routine. We dropped through the clouds, following," he nodded at Val Kenton, "your directions. We were over such a sea as we had never seen before. There was no sign of life or land. I dropped floats, to determine the currents, and then swung the ship toward the North. We found the first island within an hour. I landed the ship, intending to explore, and such was our incredible luck landed almost on top of the first expedition ship to touch Venus."

Val Kenton drew in a sharp breath. "What did you find inside?"

Tony Andrews shook his head ruefully. "Not a thing," he admitted, "I searched the ship, which was split and ruptured beyond description, and didn't find a scrap of paper or clothing—or a vestige of human remains."

"The crabs?" Val Kenton asked.

Tony Andrews shrugged. "It's possible! Well, the discovery excited us, and we took the ship aloft again, without exploring the island further. For hours, we went from island to island, seeking for signs of life. We found the wrecked remains of three other ships, and all of them as completely empty as the first. We didn't know what to make of it; we couldn't figure out any logical reason for the ships having been so completely gutted."

"You don't think the survivors could have set up a hidden camp somewhere to wait for rescue?" Val Kenton asked grimly.

"No! In the first place, the ships made better living places than any they could build; and second, we found no signs of such a habitation on any of the islands."

"What happened on this island, that you should become marooned?"

"It happened so fast, I couldn't avoid it. We landed on this beach, and were making preparations to explore, when those crabs attacked for the first time. We found out that we weren't safe, only when a great section of the rocket-tube housing gave way because of the powerful, acid-like juice the crabs exuded. I radioed for help immediately, and then the radio went dead. For the past five days, we've been fighting off those beasts at regular intervals."

Elise sighed deeply in relief, smiled at Val Kenton. "Thank heaven, it's over now," she said feelingly. "Now, after fixing the other ship, we can get back to Earth—and none too soon to please me!"

Tony Andrews flicked ashes from his cigarette, grinned. "What rescue ship did you bring, Val, one of the freighters?" he asked.

Val Kenton shook his head, his eyes diamond hard. He watched the tiny smile of happiness about Elise's curved lips for a moment, then swung his gaze to the Patrolman's hardening face.

"It's a scout cruiser, Tony," he said easily. "It was the only ship I could get."

Val Kenton laughed inwardly to himself then, laughed at the irony of the situation, knowing the horror that must be spreading through the other's mind. He rocked a bit from his inner mirth, and a savage satisfaction filled his mind momentarily.

For both he and Tony Andrews knew that, even with the full power of the rocket tubes, the single man cruiser could never carry four passengers back to safety. It might be able to lift into space with three people cramped into the one man cabin—but never with four!

One person must be left behind!

And Val Kenton had already decided who that person must be! It was to be Tony Andrews who was to be marooned to a certain death—left on Venus because of the hate Val Kenton felt for him because of the report he had made to the Patrol five years before.

Moments passed, moments in which no one spoke, and in which Val Kenton could see dreadful realization growing in the Patrolman's eyes. Val Kenton laughed even more to himself, seeing the fear rising in the other man, knowing the horrible terror that the other must be experiencing.

Elise sensed but dimly the thoughts that were racing through the minds of the men seated before her. She gazed from one to the other with eyes that grew wide and slightly fearful.

"Is something wrong?" she asked suddenly, "Can't the rescue ship be fixed?"

Tony Andrews smiled then, smiled with stiff lips, his eyes bright and confident. "Nothing is wrong," he said, "we'll be safe on Earth before you know it."

A disruptor rifle cracked loudly, the sound whipping in through the open port.

Tony Andrews snapped to his feet. "Trouble!" he barked, "Elise, you stay here; come on, Val!"

Val Kenton paused only long enough to slip newly charged loads into his guns, then swung through the port after the fleet patrolman. He dropped from the port onto the spongy ground, crouched there, his eyes searching the edge of the water for signs of the charging crab-beasts.

He straightened slowly, seeing no signs of danger, stared at Johnson and Andrews nearby.

"Sorry, to startle you like that," Johnson said, "one of those crabs stuck a pincer out of the water, and I took a snapshot at him."

Val Kenton laughed, relaxed with a sigh of pent-up air. "Glad it wasn't any worse than that," he said relievedly, "I'm not much in a mood for a fight."

Tony Andrews' gun snapped to his shoulder, and the concussion of the shot sounded strangely flat and deadly. In the water's edge, a furry crab floundered and threshed in savage death throes.

And then the water seemed to come alive with the Venusian crabs. They scuttled onto the bank from the silver water, their bodies glowing with eerie phosphorescent sheen, their cries ear-piercing.

Val Kenton laughed aloud, swung his twin hand guns into line, flicked their power onto full force. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Johnson and Andrews, and the combined fire of their guns cut a swathe of death in the charging ranks that broke the attack almost at its onset.

"Remember Mars, when we cleaned out the Truds?" Tony Andrews yelled over the blasting of the guns.

Val Kenton grinned, said nothing, but he felt a sharp nostalgia for those days so long gone in which he and Tony had fought side by side on far-off planets.

And then another gun added its fire from the port of the ship; and the crabs scuttled back toward the water.

"Hurrah for us!" Elise cried gaily from over their heads, and then her voice broke in sudden horror.

For rising from the ocean, coming out of the water as though the water itself was rising in a great lump, came SOMETHING!

It had no shape, no arms, no features—yet it was alive. It moved sluggishly toward the bank like a great solidified wave that towered a hundred feet in the air. It glowed with the phosphorescent fire of the ocean, and preceding it came a tangible aura of unspeakable menace.

"God!" Johnson croaked, "what is it?"

Val Kenton holstered his handguns, caught up his rifle, blasted a charge of unleashed energy into the vast bulk rising from the ocean. The thing seemed to jump, and the flame of the shot glowed deep within its bulk.

Then it settled again, without sound, moved closer to the beach.

"It's alive!" Val Kenton gasped, and knew instinctively why the other expeditions' ships were crushed and empty hulls on Venus.

The thing was a great blob of gelatinous substance that quivered and shook as it approached the land. Val Kenton fired twice more, gaped in incredulous surprise when the atomic fire did absolutely nothing in the way of stopping it.

He backed slowly from the water's edge, the other men moving backward as though by common consent; and they stopped only when their shoulders touched the ship.

The sea-thing was almost at the beach now. It halted its forward movement momentarily; and a pseudopod flicked from its glowing surface and settled over the shattered body of a great crab. One second the pseudopod settled there, and then was withdrawn with incredible speed.

And where the crab had been was nothing.

"Protoplasm!" Johnson gasped, "it's living protoplasm!"

Val Kenton felt a dull horror clutching at his heart. He had seen experiments with tiny bits of living protoplasm, and he knew the insatiable appetite of the mindless thing. But never in even his most horrible of dreams had he visioned a blob of sentient life that was fully a hundred yards in diameter and which must have weighed hundreds of tons.

The protoplasm touched the beach, seemed to flow out of the water. Living ropes of itself flipped out of itself, settled over the living and dead crabs; and an instant later the pseudopods flipped back and the ground was bare and sterile.

Val Kenton fired again and again, then stopped in sheer futility. For although his shots had blown bits of the creature away—each of the bits moved with insatiable greed the moment it lit, always flowing toward the nearest source of food.

And then the crabs were gone, and the protoplasm was flowing like warm, whitely-glowing tar toward the four Earth people and their ship.

Val Kenton whirled, took charge of the situation as though he was still the patrolman he had once been. He jerked his head toward the open port.

"Tony," he snapped, "get inside and bring out that catalyst feed. We can't fight this thing for long; we've got to make a run for it."

The patrolman moved without hesitation, swinging into the port, leaving his guns outside. His face was strained and white as he cast one last look at the hungry horror that moved so slowly, so implacably, up the beach.

Val Kenton set the control on his rifle. "Set your guns for flame," he said sharply, whirled and helped Elise to the ground, "we haven't enough power for atomic fire for any length of time; our only hope lies in holding that thing at bay until Tony gets the feed."

They stood, the three of them, shoulder to shoulder at the ship's side, and their guns hissed like high pressure jets as they fired in unison at the insensate monster.

Steam rose and swelled from the protoplasm, and the great blob seemed to draw back. Val Kenton felt a flame of exultation flare momentarily in his heart.

"Maybe?" he whispered to himself.

Then the weird cohesive slime surged forward again. The three guns raved and wailed with unleashed power, and the steam and horrible odor filled the air. Great areas of the protoplasm disappeared under the continuous fire, but the power of the guns was not enough to stop the horror from its relentless advance.

It moved faster now, seeming to have had new energy released within it from the dozens of crab bodies it had assimilated, and its pseudopods were great flicking blind loops of death questing before it for further sustenance.

The rifles went dead, and the two men and the girl lifted the hand guns. The flame from the guns did not have the power of the rifles, and the terror moved even closer. A four foot blob of protoplasm shot from the main body, smashed into the ship, dropped toward the three below. Johnson flicked it out of existence with full power from his gun, and the gun went dead.

"Tony!" Val Kenton yelled, fighting the fear that cramped at his muscles, when he saw the instant holes eaten in the ship's side.

And then Tony Andrews was dropping from the port, and they were sprinting toward the tunnel Val Kenton had disrupted in the jungle two hours before.

They gasped as they ran, their feet stumbling on the vine and creepers that had grown with incredible speed in the tunnel. They glanced back in time to see the tunnel's end blocked off by the surging protoplasm. There was the rending sound of trees and ferns being crushed behind them, and they ran ever faster.

"It can move almost as fast as we," Val gasped.

Elise fell, was brought to her feet by Johnson's clutching hand. The entire group ran as they had never run before in their lives, fighting their way through the jungle, blood spurting from innumerable cuts, their lungs clamoring for air.

And then they were in a tiny clearing, and Val Kenton was clutching Tony Andrews' sleeve.

"Let them go on," he half-screamed, "Johnson can fit the feed; we'll try to hold that thing back for a moment or two."

Tony Andrews nodded, gasped out instructions for Johnson to follow. Elise whirled when she heard the orders, came close to the Patrolman, held him tight.

"Hurry, Tony," she cried. "Don't take any more chances than you must." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "You know that I'd hate to lose a husband on our honeymoon."

"Husband?" Val Kenton gasped incredulously.

Tony Andrews nodded. "Yes, we were married just before we started; this was to be our honeymoon."

Val Kenton didn't move, but his hate then was a terrible thing that shook him with its intensity. Now he had a double reason for slaying this dishevelled man who stood at his side. He forced his voice to remain comparatively calm, seeking to hide the feelings that tortured him.

"Run," he said to Elise and Johnson, "we haven't much time."

And then Val Kenton and Tony Andrews were alone in the clearing, and the sounds of the flowing death behind them grew louder as the seconds passed.

Val Kenton backed to one side, watched with flame-bright eyes as the Patrolman lifted his gun in a futile attempt to stall the monster for precious seconds. He lifted his own gun, centered it on the Patrolman's broad back, and his finger tightened on the firing stud.

He fired—and in the same split second that he fired, a great crimson hood flashed down over his head and body and tightened about his waist, pinning his arms to his sides.

Val Kenton screamed then, his cry reverberating into his ears as the monster, carnivorous flower tightened its grasp. He smelled the sickly sweet odor of the blossom, and giddiness tugged at his senses. His body surged again and again in a futile attempt to break the rubbery-like tension of the plant, fought agoniziedly when he felt the first exquisite agony of the digestive juice biting into his shoulder.

Then he was free, retching in the clean air, his body being helped erect by Tony Andrews' firm hands.

"Whew!" Tony Andrews breathed raggedly, "I thought you were a goner for a moment!"

Val Kenton straightened then, reading something in the clear eyes of his former friend that he had thought he would never see again in the eyes of any man. He fought the lump in his throat for seconds, then whirled.

"Let's get to the ship," he said. "It's foolish to try and do anything here."

They dodged down the path, the fetid odor of the pursuing protoplasm following them on the light wind. Val Kenton thought many things then, the thoughts racing through his mind with quicksilver-like speed. And in those flashing seconds, he found the answers to many things that he had refused to face in the past.

And then they were at the ship, and Elise was waiting at the port.

"Tony," she called, "Johnson can't make the adjustment; he needs your help."

Val Kenton caught the Patrolman's arm in a grip of steel. "Give me your coat and cap," he snapped, "and get into the pilot's seat." He swallowed heavily.

"Get Johnson into the control cabin with you. I'm going into the rear emergency port, and repair that jet. I don't know if the ship will carry all of us, but you've got to make the try. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but—" Tony Andrews began puzzledly.

"No time for talk," Val Kenton snapped. "I'll brace myself in that repair space, and tap when I'm ready. After that, it's up to you."

He shrugged into the Patrolman's coat and cap, straightened his shoulders in the familiar set of the coat.

He spun on one heel, went toward the emergency port, then retraced his steps. "Will you shake hands, Tony?" he asked.

A moment later, he climbed into the port, his eyes blurred because of his emotion at the warm pressure of Tony Andrews' hand. He squirmed into position, fought with the stubborn catalyst feed. Within seconds, he had it fixed. He drew a deep breath, then pounded the agreed signal on the metal bulkhead.

The Patrol cruiser staggered a bit in its upward flight, then fled for the clouds high over the water world. And at the moment of its takeoff, the monster blob of protoplasm burst through the surrounding trees, halted as though it knew its prey had escaped. Then it moved a bit, and a blind pseudopod came questing from its body.

Val Kenton watched it move toward him, and he waited its coming unflinchingly. He stood straight and proud, the Patrol cap cocked jauntily on his head, his shoulders square in the blue coat that bore the crossed comets of the Patrol Service.

He lit a cigarette, watched the protoplasm coming ever closer. He fired the last charge in his gun, laughed aloud at the instant withdrawal of the pseudopod.

He saluted gravely, as he had done years before. Then, the cigarette canted in firm lips, he went forward—a Captain in the Space Patrol moving forward, never backward, facing danger as tradition demanded.

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