F.O.B. Venus
Date: 2024-06-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Short stories; Space ships -- Fiction

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Title: F.O.B. Venus

Author: Nelson S. Bond

Illustrator: Robert Fuqua

Release date: June 27, 2024 [eBook #73925]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1939

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73925

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK F.O.B. VENUS ***

F-O-B-VENUS

By NELSON S. BOND

Lancelot Biggs was perhaps the worst second
mate Captain Hanson had ever shipped, and
he was convinced of it when he ruined their
cargo. But how dumb a man is, may
sometimes be a matter of opinion.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures November 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Something had gone a little haywire with my bug, and I had just repaired it and was CQ-ing on the 20 band when the door opened and Captain Hanson walked in.

Naturally, I was surprised. We were only four hours out of the Venus H-layer, and I hadn't expected any visitors; least of all the skipper. But he plunked himself down in the best chair and said, "Sparks, look at me! What do you see?"

That gave me a jolt. Even the best of them make the old dipsy-doo once in a while, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when Captain Hanson went space nutty. He'd been with the Corporation, man and boy, for more than thirty years now, and had never spent a day in dry-dock. I reached behind me cautiously and said in as soothing a voice as I could muster, "Why, I see a very nice man, Captain. Now, just you sit quiet for a minute. I've got to—"

"Stop bein' a damned fool, Sparks!" said the skipper wearily, "An' put down that monkey-wrench! I'm not slippin' my gravs—yet. I'm just askin' you a simple question. What do you see?"

I said, "Is it facts you're after, Cap, or am I allowed poetic license? If it's facts, I see a swell, slightly gray-haired guy in his middle fifties who's been through the mill, knows space like a book, and—"

"Wrong!" said Hanson. "Sparks, all radiomen are dumb. I guess that's why they're radiomen. What you see before you is a broken man. A man sadly buffeted by Fate and the dread clutch of circumstances. Not to mention meddlesome vice-presidents."

This time I got it.

"Biggs?" I said.

"Yes, Sparks. Biggs. Now tell me, man to man, what did I ever do to deserve Biggs?"

He had me there. Being the skipper of the Saturn is not what I'd call an easy job under the best of conditions. The Saturn is the oldest space-lugger still doing active duty on Corporation runs. She was built 'way back there before the turn of the century. For the past ten or twelve years, she had been on freight service, having been judged unfit for passenger duty by the SSCB—Space Safety Control Board.

To make matters worse, while we were taking on cargo at Sun City spaceport, the skipper had been called into the company offices. When he came out again, he had this Biggs in tow.

Biggs was tall. Biggs was lanky and gangly and all the other adjectives you can think of that mean a guy's Adam's-apple sticks out. He was overflowing at the mouth with a great big grin, and he was as dumb as they make 'em. He had his Third Mate's papers, and was entitled to be known as "Mister" Biggs—the "Mister" being a nice camouflage for his real name, Lancelot.

But—Biggs was the nephew of crusty old Prendergast Biggs, first vice-president of the Corporation. So there was nothing the skipper could do but gulp and say, "Very good!" when they assigned Biggs to the Saturn.

There was nothing to prevent him from hoping Biggs would stumble over his suitcases and bust his scrawny neck—but Biggs didn't do it. He was awkward enough to stumble, but lucky enough to fall on a cushion if he did!

I said gently, "What's he up to now, Captain?"

"What isn't he up to?" groaned the skipper. "First, he said he could handle the gravs when we broke out of Venus' clutch. So—"

"Oh!" I said, "He did that, did he?"

"Stop rubbin' your head an' feelin' sorry for yourself," said Hanson. "You got off lucky. Chief Garrity is nursin' two black eyes. One of the wipers has a busted arm. Everybody on the ship went floatin' off to the ceiling, same as you did."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Everything else!" snorted Hanson. "While we were all scramblin' around in midair, Biggs made a grab for the hand-controls. He got the manual deflector by mistake. Todd has just finished shapin' the course revision. We're point-oh-seven degrees off course now; almost three hundred thousand miles! We've got to up revs and waste fuel to get back, or we'll report in to Earth a day late. And you know what that means!"

Sure, I knew what that meant. Cap on the carpet before the Board; the rest of us sitting around chewing our fingernails, wondering whether they'd yank the Saturn off the Venus run.

"Well, what are you going to do about him?" I asked.

"What can I do?"

"There's always the airlock," I suggested. "Nobody would ever blame you."

"This ain't no time to be funny, Sparks!" complained the skipper. "This is a serious problem. We've got a valuable cargo of mekel-root and clab-beans to take into New York. But if that guy messes up our flight any more—"

He shook his head dolefully. I scratched mine. Then I got a brilliant idea.

"Cargo!" I said. "There's your answer, Captain!"

"I'm listenin'," said Hanson.

"Put Biggs in charge of the cargo. That way he'll be down in the hold throughout the trip. He won't be up in the control turret to bother you. And there's nothing he can do down there that'll hurt anybody."

"But that's the supercargo's job," frowned the skipper. "Biggs knows that."

"Sure. But Harkness will play along with you. Tell him to let on he's sick. Give him a vacation for this trip. He deserves it, anyway. Then it's logical enough to put Biggs on special duty below."

The skipper grinned.

"Sparks, I take it back what I said about radiomen. I think you got somethin' there!"

"Then you'll do it?"

"Immediately," said Hanson, rising, "if not sooner!"

So that was that. That night my relief came on duty, and I went down to the mess hall to eat whatever I could stomach of Slops' slumgullion. First person I met up with was Mr. Lancelot Biggs himself.

"Hello, Sparks," he said.

"Hello, yourself," I answered. "What are you doing at this mess? Thought you ate at the skipper's hour?"

"I did until now," he grinned. "Harkness was taken ill this afternoon, and the Skipper put me on emergency duty in his place."

"Is that so?" I said, looking as surprised as possible. "Well, that's quite a job. Lot of responsibility, you know. That cargo's valuable."

I had to grin at the way his lean face sobered.

"I realize that, Sparks. I'm devoting a lot of thought to the job, too. You know, I'm a bit of an experimenter, and it seems to me—"

One of the mess boys brought on my chow then, and I didn't listen to the rest of his chatter. Which was a sad mistake. If I had listened, I would have been able to warn Captain Hanson that trouble was on the way.

I think it was about the third day out that I began to smell those smells. Yes, I know it was the third day, because I'd just contacted Joe Marlowe on Lunar Three, giving him declination and cruising speed of the Saturn. I thought it was funny, but guessed it would go away. It didn't. It got worse. Finally, on the fifth day, I decided to do something.

There's nothing like meeting trouble halfway. I was just on my way from the radio room to the control turret when I bumped smack into Captain Hanson. It was a head on collision, but the Skipper's "Oof!" took longer than mine, so I got to talk first.

"Listen here!" I yelled, "I've had about as much of this rickety old tub as I'm going to stand. If you can't put a stop to those stinks Slops makes in the galley—"

Hanson gave me a look that would wilt lettuce.

"I don't want no trouble with you, Sparks!" was his comeback. "I been smellin' those smells, too. That's what I was aimin' to ask you about. Have you been foolin' around with some of them chemical experiments of your'n?"

"I have not," I informed him loftily. "And besides, while chemicals may stink sometimes, they don't ever give out a smell like the butt of an overripe cabbage. Except perhaps some of the sulphur compounds." Then I stared at him. "I'm not kidding. I think those smells are coming up out of the galley."

The skipper groaned softly.

"Trouble. Nothin' but trouble. It ain't enough I'm supposed to shuttle this barge between Earth an' Mars. Now I got smells to worry about, too. Well, come on! Let's look!"

We went down to the galley. Slops was stirring something in a bowl. I took one look and shuddered. Tapioca—again. And don't tell me you're not supposed to stir tapioca. I know it. Tell Slops.

Then the skipper loosed his blast.

"Okay, Slops," he snarled. "We give up. Where'd you hide it?"

Slops looked puzzled.

"Hide what? I didn't hide nothin'. What is this, a game?"

"Sure," I chinned in. "It's called Sniff-the-Atmosphere. You play it by pressing your thumb and forefinger to your nostrils. Then you try to guess what died."

"Quiet, Sparks!" roared the skipper. Then, to the cook, "Well, Slops?"

Slops shrugged.

"I ain't done nothin'," he protested. "I ain't hid nothin', and I ain't smelled nothin'. Now I got a meal on the fire. Go 'way and leave me alone."

The skipper looked at me, and I stared back at him. Both of us realized the same thing at the same time. Slops wasn't lying. The smell wasn't as bad here as it had been updeck.

Hanson scratched his head. He said, suspiciously, "Sparks, are you sure you ain't been mixin' chemicals?"

"I'll swear it," I told him, "on a pile of logbooks. That smell came from—Hey! What else beside the galley lies beneath my room and the control turret?"

"I'm a cook," said Slops, still stirring the tapioca, "not a blueprint. Don't ask me."

"Shut up!" snapped Captain Hanson. "He ain't askin' you. Let's see, Sparks. There's the storage closet ... the reservoir ... the refrigeration tanks, and the—" His eyes widened suddenly; fearfully. "Sparks!" he husked.

"Yes?"

"The vegetable hold!"

Man, that was it! The minute he said it, I knew. The vegetable hold—and Biggs in charge!

We hightailed it for the nearest ramp. The minute we turned down the corridor the smell got worse. Hanson blasted down the aisle like a rogue asteroid, with me trailing along behind. We hit the door; rammed it open—

Biggs was in there. The darned fool was standing in there dressed in a bulger, calmly spraying the bins of mekel-root and clab with a hose!

He turned as we entered and his eyes lighted behind the quartzite. His audiophone clacked pleasantly.

"Hello!" he said. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Anything wrong!" bellowed Captain Hanson. "He asks if there's anything wrong! That—that suit! And that hose—" The skipper's face was turning purple. "And this heat!"

"I turned off the refrigerating unit," clacked Biggs pleasantly. "You see, I had a theory that since the climate of Venus is warm and moist, it would be better for the cargo if I attempted to simulate its normal conditions of growth. So I—"

"And the suit?" roared Hanson. "Why the bulger?"

Biggs moved his hands deprecatingly.

"Why, possible infection, you know. I didn't want to expose the vegetables to any organisms—"

"Infect ... moisture ... heat...." Captain Hanson gave up. He buried his face in his hands. "Tell him, Sparks! Tell him what he's doing!"

I said, "Listen, Biggs—your theory is no good. Clab and mekel have to be kept in a cool, dry atmosphere or they rot. As a matter of fact, they are rotten! That's why the captain and I came down here—to investigate the smell. If you weren't wearing a bulger you'd notice it yourself."

"Smell?" said Biggs. "Why, now, come to think of it, I have noticed a curious odor about the ship from time to time. But I thought it was rats!"

Rats! On a space ship! Imagine!

That was the last straw for Hanson. He'd been trying, and trying hard. But now he exploded.

"Biggs!" he roared, "You've ruined this cargo! Now you're relieved from your command! But before you report to your quarters, I want every bit of this mess cleaned up. And I mean every last bit, understand? Junk it! Clear it out!"

Biggs faltered, "B-but, Captain, I only tried to—"

"You heard me!"

The skipper wheeled, fiery with wrath, and strode to the doorway. I hurried after him. I whispered in his ear, "Take it easy, Captain. He's the vice-president's nephew. Maybe you ought to go slow!"

"Slow?" groaned the skipper. "A fifty thousand dollar cargo ruined—and you tell me to go slow? I'll see that idiotic son-of-a-space-wrangler fryin' in chaos. I'll blast him out of space if I'm blacklisted for it!"

I said nothing more. What was there to say? Fifty thousand bucks worth of cargo rotting in the hold. The Board would love that!

That was all until the next morning. The next morning I was on the bridge when Captain Hanson had a visitor. Garrity, the Chief Engineer. Garrity never came to the bridge. So I knew, the minute I saw him, that something was vitally wrong.

It was. Garrity's first words made that clear. He glared at the skipper accusingly from eyes that were still faintly purpled.

"Captain Hanson," he exploded. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I can find my Forenzi jars?"

Hanson said, "Forenzi jars? What are you talking about, Chief?"

"You'll be knowing what a Forenzi jar is, no doubt?" said Garrity caustically. "'Tis a lead container for battery solution. Yesterday there were thirty of them in the storeroom. Today there are only a half dozen left!"

Hanson said pettishly, "Now, Chief, be kind enough to conduct your own search for the jars. I don't know anything about them. If you can't watch your own equipment, don't complain to me about it!"

"I'm complaining to you, sir," said the Chief, "for the verra simple reason that 'twas one of your men who removed them from the locker. Your third mate, Mister Biggs!"

"Biggs!" said Hanson. "Biggs!" His face reddened. He walked to the intercommunication unit, jabbed the button that connected with Biggs' quarters. "Mr. Biggs?" he yelped, "Chief Garrity is up here in the turret asking about twenty-four lead containers that disappeared strangely from his equipment locker. Do you know anything about—"

The diaphragm clacked an answer. Hanson started. His eyes bulged. He yelled, "What?"

Again some metallic buzzing. This time Hanson didn't try to answer. He tottered away from the 'phone.

"G-Garrity," he faltered, "will you be needin' the Forenzis before we make port?"

"Well, 'tis not exactly vital—" admitted Garrity.

"But—why?"

Hanson made a weak gesture.

"Because they're—out there!"

"What?" I said. "Outside the ship? How come? Why?"

Hanson's eyes were haunted.

"Biggs," he said in a hollow voice, "thought they were garbage cans! He used them to dispose of the rotten cargo!"

Well, there wasn't any danger of the Forenzis getting lost, anyway. But do you know I even had to point that out to Mr. Biggs? Yes. That night I got a personal message for him, and I took it down to his cabin. Being confined to quarters, he was lonely. He looked so abject that I felt sorry for him, and lingered to talk for a while.

"I guess you think I'm a frightful dummy, Sparks," he said ruefully. "And I know Captain Hanson thinks so. But—this is my first flight, you know. And nobody ever told me what to use for garbage pails—"

"Look, Biggs," I told him, "there's no need for garbage pails in space. You can't just dump things out the airlock and expect to get rid of them."

"But Captain Hanson said to junk the spoiled vegetables."

"Junk. Not dump! They should have been thrown into the incinerator. You see, anything tossed out of the Saturn in free space just follows along with the ship." I grinned. "I'd hate to be one of the spaceport attendants on Earth when the Saturn comes in surrounded by twenty-four lead satellites full of garbage."

He picked me up on that one quick as a flash.

"But—but they won't be with us when we land, Sparks. As soon as we hit Earth's atmosphere, the friction will destroy the Forenzis and their contents."

I whistled softly.

"By golly, you're right. I clean forgot about that, and Hanson was so sore, he forgot it, too. That means we have to get those containers back into the ship before we hit the tropo, or we're going to lose a couple hundred bucks worth of equipment."

Biggs said meekly, "I—I'll be glad to go out and reclaim them, Sparks. Can you fix it up with the skipper?"

"I'll try," I told him.

So the next day I told Hanson about it. The Captain yanked his lower lip thoughtfully and agreed.

"Let him do it. That's better than giving him a free ride to Earth. And maybe he'll slip into the rocket blasts?"

I passed the order on to Biggs; then went back to the radio room. Joe Marlowe was calling me from Lunar Three. And what he had to say drove all other thoughts from my mind. His message came right from Corporation headquarters.

"Please report," it said, "exact amount and probable value of cargo. Must have immediate reply."

I shot through an O.K. and passed the message up to the skipper. Then, my curiosity aroused, I contacted Joe on our private conversation band and asked him how come and why. He answered cautiously.

"Stock market taking nosedive in New York, Bert," he told me. "Corp. bonds fading. Need this cargo badly."

Boy, there was bad news! It was a private message, but I figured the Old Man ought to know it. So when he came in I passed it along. He stared at me.

"Hell's bells, Sparks! Then in that case, I can't send this!"

"This" was the message he had intended to relay: It said, succinctly, "Cargo ruined. Value zero."

"If you do," I told him, "we'll all be studying the want ads as soon as we hit port. Stock markets are screwy. This can't be a bad panic, or a fifty thousand buck cargo wouldn't be that important. But if the Corporation's under suspicion, and they learn the Saturn's cargo is worthless—"

"What will we do then?"

"Stall," I suggested. "Maybe by the time we get in, the situation will be cleared up."

So we framed a message that wouldn't upset the apple cart too soon. It said, "Value of cargo estimated at Sun City spaceport as $50,000." And that was true enough....

Biggs, with his unerring faculty for selecting the wrong moment, chose this time to come bouncing into my radio room. He had taken off his quartzite headpiece, but he was still wearing his bulger, and its deflated folds hung around him like the poorly draped carcass of a Venusian mammoth.

He said, "Hey, Sparks, have you got a book on energy and radiation?"

"Help yourself," I said, pointing to my bookcase. "Why, what's the sudden excitement?"

"I've been thinking," he began, "that maybe—"

Captain Hanson let out a blat like an angry lion.

"Mister Biggs! I thought you were reclaiming those Forenzi jars?"

"Yes, sir. I was. I mean—I am. But—"

"Never mind the 'buts'! Get back to work!"

"Y-yes, sir!" Biggs saluted meekly; tossed me a grateful glance. "Thanks, Sparks. I've got an idea, and if I'm right—"

"Get out, Biggs!" roared the skipper.

"Yes, sir." Biggs backed out hastily. He was thumbing the pages as he disappeared. Hanson yanked his lower lip angrily.

"The Corporation goes busted. The Saturn goes under the hammer. We're all out of jobs. And that—that insane young whippersnapper wants to play school!"

"He seemed mighty excited about something," I said.

"He'll be worse than that," promised the skipper, "if he doesn't get those jars back on board."

All this, to get Biblical about it, took place on the seventh day. The Saturn is a ten-day freighter. So we had three more days of headaches before us till we slipped into New York spaceport.

They were three days of headaches, too. The skipper and I spent most of our time hanging over the radio, watching the progress of the stock market slump in New York. We hoped the situation would ease up so that our coming in with a zero cargo wouldn't make any difference—but no such luck. Somehow the rumor had gotten around that the Saturn's cargo would not be of sufficient value to keep the Corporation in the blue. And the Wall Street wolves were closing in, getting ready to snap if the rumor were true.

In the meantime, our stupid friend, Biggs, was taking a hell of a long time to reclaim those Forenzis. It's really not a hard job, you know. All he had to do was slip out through the airlock, throw a grapple around each jar, and bring it in.

But he seemed to be as awkward at this as at every other job he had ever attempted. On an off-period, I went down to watch him once. I found he'd thrown grapples around the jars, but had not brought a single one into the airlock yet.

Biggs was in a frightful mess, trying to throw grapples around the jars.

I told him, "You'd better get a wiggle on, Biggs. We hit the tropo tomorrow. If those things get into the atmosphere, you'll be able to pour them into the airlock."

"I know," he said abstractedly, "but I'm not quite ready to—Sparks, according to that book you lent me, cosmic rays go down to 1/100,000 Ângstrom units."

"That's right," I told him.

"That means they are more than ten times as intense as gamma rays."

"Right again. Why? What's the pay-off?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he said strangely. He finished tying a loop around one of the jars; pushed himself free and toward the airlock.

"You want me to help you drag 'em in now?" I asked.

"No thanks, Sparks. I think we'll leave them out till tomorrow," he said.

"But Captain Hanson—" I began.

"Tomorrow."

"After all, I'm just a radioman," I shrugged. "It's your funeral," I said.

He got them inside the next day. I saw them lying in the corridor beside the airlock, covered with a strip of tarpaulin. And he got them in just in time, too, for about an hour later we hit the Heaviside layer.

We set out our Ampie and eased through all right. From there on, it was just an easy coast to Earth. We threw out our lug-sails—the retractable metal fins which give "space luggers" their name—and put on the power brakes. In a couple of hours we were settling into our hangar off New York spaceport.

I closed out my key and locked the radio room. There was nothing more I could do now. So I went up to the control turret and found Captain Hanson gnawing the fingernail of his index finger down to the second joint.

"Well, Captain?" I said.

"Any late news, Sparks?" he demanded anxiously.

I shook my head.

"Only bad news. The Board's sending over their appraisers immediately."

He said wearily, "Well, we did our best. If it hadn't been for that crazy Biggs, we'd still have our cargo. But as it is—"

"I wonder if International Stratoplanes need any radio operators?" I said gloomily.

We were grounded now. As we walked down the corridor the motors went off, and I could hear the hiss of the airlock opening. We reached the port just as the committee entered. Doc Challenger was there, and Col. Brophy, and old Prendergast Biggs himself. I knew, then, that things were in a bad state, or all the big bugs would not have come out.

Challenger stepped forward, beaming.

"Happy landing, Captain!" he chortled. "I need not tell you how glad we are you came in safely. We've been experiencing bad times in New York, sir, bad times! But everything's all right now."

Hanson said, "Yes, sir. But I've got something to tell you, sir—"

"Later, Captain, later! First we must take up this cargo question. Approximately $50,000 worth of mekel and clab—is that right? We have our appraisers here. If your estimate is right, the Corporation will weather this—er—mild storm."

Hanson coughed nervously. He hedged.

"Well, now, you see—about that there cargo—"

You never saw three faces lose their smiles so suddenly. There was stony silence for a minute. Then Col. Brophy said in a deep voice, "Captain Hanson, there's nothing wrong in your estimate of the cargo's value, is there?"

"No, sir. I mean the estimate was right, but—"

IT was right here that young Lancelot Biggs interrupted.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I don't quite understand. Is it important that we land a cargo of clab and mekel?"

Captain Hanson whirled on him.

"Biggs!" he snapped sternly. Then he turned to old Prendergast Biggs. "Sir," he said, "I've delayed telling this as long as possible. But now I must tell you. This precious nephew of yours—"

The old man smiled fatuously.

"Yes, yes, Captain Hanson. A fine lad, isn't he? What was it you were starting to say, Lancelot?"

I grabbed Hanson's arm. I thought he was going to blow his tubes and hit somebody right then and there. But before he got a chance, Lancelot Biggs was talking again. To the Captain.

"Captain Hanson," he said seriously, "I wish you'd told me this before. I didn't realize that our cargo was so important—"

Then he turned to the committee.

"I hope you will not be surprised to learn, gentlemen, that our cargo is not vegetable. At the last minute, Captain Hanson decided to make a change—"

Hanson's face turned white. He squawked, "What! Are you trying to shift the blame to—"

Biggs' voice drowned out his protest.

"—and so, gentlemen, we have placed the cargo right here for your inspection. Look!" With a swift motion he tore the tarpaulin off the Forenzi jars. I looked—and gulped! They were the same jars, all right. Only different! They were no longer a dull, whitish metal. They were a glinting copper color! Biggs patted one of them affectionately.

"Ask your appraisers to estimate the value of these, gentlemen. I think they'll find their value to be approximately a quarter of a million dollars. These are—pure gold!"

It's a good thing I was holding on to Captain Hanson's arm. For just as the committee was exclaiming, "Excellent! Excellent trading, Captain Hanson!" the skipper's nerves gave out. He collapsed like a punctured bulger. I remember shouting, "Water! Water, somebody!" Then I passed out, too!

Afterward, the three of us were alone in the turret. And Hanson was asking, "But how, Biggs? I don't get it at all? How in blazes did it happen?"

Biggs blushed and looked uncomfortable.

"Why, it's pretty obvious when you come to analyze it, Captain. I can't understand how it is that no one ever discovered it before, in twenty years of space travel. But perhaps it's because ships and bulgers are made of permalloy instead of lead. Or it may be that some enzyme secreted by the rotten vegetables acted as a catalyst. Lab workers will have to study that."

"You're still not telling us what happened."

"Don't you know? It was transmutation, induced in the lead Forenzi jars by the action of cosmic rays."[1]

Captain Hanson said in an awed tone. "Exposure to cosmic rays done that?"

"Yes. Artificial transmutations were caused 'way back in the early 20th Century through bombardment with gamma rays. And cosmic rays are more than ten times as short as gammas.

"I began to suspect something strange was happening to the Forenzi jars when I first went out to gather them in. Their color had changed slightly, and their exterior was rather more granular. That's why I came in to borrow Spark's book on radiation. What I saw convinced me that the lead was being transmuted; was then in the mesolead stage; approximately an isotope of thallium.

"I decided to wait and see if the transmutation would continue—"

Hanson wiped his hand across his forehead.

"Suppose there'd been more time? An' suppose'n the transmutation had gone on a step farther? What then?"

"Well, now, there's an interesting question. The next element down the ladder is platinum.[2] It's quite possible that—"

"Wait a minute," interrupted the skipper. "Did you say platinum?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Nothin'. That is, nothin' much."

The skipper rose and strode to the intercommunicating phone.

"Ross?" he yelled. "Listen—I want you to get this crate ready to roll again. We're takin' off for Venus first thing in the mornin'. An', hey, Ross! Send to the warehouse for about five—no, make it six—dozen Forenzi jars. Yeah, Forenzi jars, I said.

"And Ross—get the biggest ones they got! The Corporation ain't found it out yet, but we're goin' into the transmutin' business. And Mister Biggs comes aboard as First Mate!"

[1] Lead has an atomic weight of 207 plus, and its atomic number is 82. This atomic number corresponds to its net positive nuclear charge. Gold on the other hand, has an atomic weight of 197, with an atomic number of 79.

The loss of two alpha particles and the loss of a single beta particle in a molecule of lead, causes that molecule to become an isotopal molecule of gold, with an atomic number 79, and the atomic weight of 199. For all practical commercial purposes, this is the same as true gold.—Author.

[2] Platinum has a weight of 195 plus, and a net Positive nuclear charge of 78.—Author.

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