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Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #61826.
The opening · free to read
Venus was civilized ... so the Universe thought! But deep in its midnight caverns ... beyond light, beyond the wildest imaginings of an ordered System ... dwelt Horror.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They stood in the Orestes' tiny observation turret, Mallory's defiant arm still tight about the slim and lovely girl, just exactly as bull-voiced Captain Lane had found them. The shimmering reflection of the planet Venus, only a few thousand miles ahead, bathed the trim, hard-jawed man and the softly pretty girl in a gentle glow, but it failed to soothe the grizzled space ship skipper.
"What in hell does this mean?"
Mallory, remembering an old forgotten saying--something about a soft answer turning aside wrath--spoke rapidly. "Sorry if we gave you a shock, sir," he said. "But your daughter and I are engaged."
Few medical men would have guaranteed Space Captain Jonathan Lane a long life at that moment. His usually ruddy face was a violent mauve-scarlet, his eyes hot pin-points of anger, his lean, hard body was atremble with emotion.
"Engaged. Engaged!" He made a convulsive motion. "Did you say engaged? To this inane young fool. You're talking nonsense. Go to your cabin, girl."
Dorothy Lane sighed and looked hopefully up at Mallory.
Tim Mallory had forgotten his old and wise quotation.
"Why not engaged," he snapped. "What have you got against me?"
"What," growled Captain Lane. "He asks me what!"
He had a reason; one which he shared with all fond parents who have ever seen a beloved child slipping from their arms--jealousy. Jealousy and grief. Now his mind pounced on a substitute for the true reasons that he would not--could not--name.
"Well, for one thing," he said curtly, "you're not a spaceman. You're nothing but a blasted Earthlubber!"
Mallory grinned.
"You can hardly call me an Earthlubber, Captain. I spent two years on Luna, three on Mars; I'll be five or more on Venus--"
"Pah! Luna ... Mars ... Venus ... you're still a groundhog. I'll not see my girl married to a money-grubbing businessman, Mallory."
"Tim's not a businessman," broke in Dorothy Lane. "He's an engineer." And anyone seeing her young fury would have smiled to note how much alike she was to her bucko, space captain father.
"Engineer! Nonsense! Only an astrogation engineer deserves that title. He's a--a--What is it you do? Build ice-boxes?"
"I'm a calorimetrical engineer," Mallory answered stiffly. "My main job is the designing and installation of air-conditioning plants where they are needed. On airless Luna, the cold Martian deserts, here on Venus. The simple truth is--"
"The simple truth is," stated the skipper savagely, "that you're a groundhog and a damned poor son-in-law for a spaceman. You being what you are, and Dorothy being what she is, I say the hell with you, Mr. Mallory! Perhaps I can't prevent your marriage. But there's one thing I can do--and that is wash my hands of the two of you!"
He watched them, searching for signs of indecision in their eyes. He found, instead--and with a sense of sickening dread--only sorrow. Sorrow and pity and regret. And Tim Mallory said quietly, "I'm sorry, sir, that you feel that way about it."
Lane turned to his daughter.
"Dorothy?" he said hoarsely.
"I'm sorry, too." Her voice was gentle but determined. "Tim is right. We--" Then her eyes widened; sudden panic lighted them, and her hand flew to her lips in a gesture of fear. "Something's wrong! Venus! The ship--!"
Captain Lane did not need her warning. His space-trained body had recognized disaster a split-second before. His legs had felt the smooth flooring beneath him lurch and sway. His eyes had glimpsed, through the spaceport, the sudden looming of the silver disc toward which they had been gliding easily but now were plunging at headlong, breakneck speed. His ears howled with the clamor of monstrous winds that clutched with vibrant fingers the falling Orestes.
In a flash he spun and fought his way up a sharply tilting deck to the wall audio, thrust at its button, bawled a query. The mate's voice, shrill with terror, answered:
"The Dixie-rod, sir! It's jammed! We're trying to get it free, but it's locked! We're out of control--"
"Up rockets!" roared Lane. "Up rockets and blast!"
"They're cut, sir! The hypo's cold. We'll have to 'bandon ship--."
Abandon ship! Tim Mallory did not need Dorothy's sudden gasp to tell him what that meant to the trio caught in the observation turret. Earthlubber he might be, but he knew enough about the construction of space craft to realize that there were no auxiliary safety-sleds anchored to this section of the Orestes.
Venus was no longer a beaming platter of silver in the distance. They had burst through its eternal blanket of cloud, now; The world below was no longer a sphere, it was a huge saucer of green, swelling ominously with each flashing second. Tempests screamed about them, and the screaming was the triumphant cry of hungry death.
No ships. No time to seek escape. Life, which had but recently become a precious thing to Tim Mallory, was but a matter of minutes.
He saw the agony of indecision on Captain Jonathan Lane's face, heard, as in a dream, the skipper delivering the only possible order.
"Very well, Carter! 'Bandon ship!"
And the pilot's hectic query, "But where are you?"
"Never mind that. Cut loose, you fool!"
"No, Captain! You're below. I can't let you die. I'll keep trying--"
"'Bandon ship, Carter! It's an order!"
And the faint, thin answer, "Aye, sir!" Silence.
Tim turned to Dorothy, and from somewhere summoned the ghost of a smile. His arms went out to her, and as one in a dream she moved toward him. There was, at least, this. They could die together.
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