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                          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.