S.O.S. Aphrodite!

No wonder that signal stabbed out into the icy void. For it was a ship of hate and evil, and ISP patrolman Steve Coran trusted only one person--after strapping her in her bunk!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

On the high metallic wall across the street was a big sign: VENUS TRANSPORT and a smaller sign which read CONTAMINATION AREA--KEEP OUT! Steve Coran turned away from the window and faced the ISP official across the desk.

"From the time you leave this office, you'll be in deadly danger," the official said. "We aren't dealing with sporadic cases of space piracy. This is a well-organized group of saboteurs, pirates and assassins backed by a ring of powerful and unscrupulous men, some of them in high places. They have more on their minds than mere looting. They have certain political objectives--and will stop at nothing to cause unrest, even war or revolution, to gain their ends. Fishers in troubled waters...."

Coran laughed harshly. "Doesn't sound like a rest cure. Why'd you pick me for the job?"

The official opened a file drawer and riffled the cards. "You were recommended by the Ministry of Transport. I confess that I was dubious, because of your record. However, you were transferred from the Mars-Jupiter sector for the one reason that you're not known here. Any of our regular security agents or the ISP men would be recognized at once. Our original idea was to place you aboard a rocket transport as a crewman to spy out the weak links in our defensive measures. But a matter of graver importance has come up. The assignments will overlap, but we can no longer give you official backing."

"You'd better bring me up to date," Coran said bluntly.

"The pattern is usually the same. Barratry. Three of the Venus transports have been deliberately wrecked and looted. Of plutonium, for the most part. Members of this criminal group have infiltrated the crew. Even trusted officers have been forced, by blackmail or other methods, to aid the plotters. We can trust no one, not even the captain."

"I see. What is this other matter you spoke about?"

"Two days ago we arrested a man. The charge was barratry. We had no name, only a heliophoto from Venus. In his possession we found documents relating to political matters of vital importance. Release of the information contained in his portfolio would be disastrous at this time. It could cause chaos, perhaps even war."

Coran grunted. "Such documents have no right to exist."

"I agree. Unfortunately, this one does exist. And it's no longer in our custody. A woman, obviously an accomplice, got a blaster-gun to him. Two ISP men were killed, and the prisoner escaped. The documents went with him. I don't have to tell you that both of these fugitives must be apprehended or killed. And those papers must be brought back or destroyed. That's your job."

"I don't like it."

"Tact isn't your long suit, is it, Lieutenant? You weren't asked if you liked it. With two black marks against your record, you can't afford an opinion. One more and you're through as an officer in the space patrol--"

"I don't like working out of uniform."

"--and I wouldn't count too much on a friendship with Paul Jomian, if I were you, Coran. He's through here ... even if he was kicked upstairs into the transport ministry. We no longer approve his methods. His rough-shod, undisciplined methods may get by in a frontier civilization like that of the outer planets, but nowadays we require efficiency and complete co-operation in the ISP. The time is past when an ISP officer can forget to change his uniform and go without shaving for days at a time."

Coran's eyes glittered. "There was more to Paul Jomian than gold braid and pretty uniforms. He was a man. And he got things done so a lot of you pretty-boys could sit on your fat chairs and keep your hair unmussed. For your information, those black marks on my record are for tearing apart superior officers who made cracks about Paul Jomian. Do you want me to turn in my badge?"

The official smiled poisonously. "That would be the easy way out for you, Coran. What's the matter--the job too tough for you?"

"I can't stand the smell of perfume around here. And the jobs don't come too tough. Relax, big shot. I'll run your stinking little errand for you. But it's the last one. When I hand your two-vikdal bad man over to you, I'm through. Make out my resignation that way, and I'll sign it before I leave."