Part 1

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.