Part 3

"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.