Don Denton had walked into the weirdest
enigma he had ever encountered. Dead men
_lived_, and ships vanished without sound.
And to top everything, when he tried to
unravel the puzzle--he found that _he_
had been dead for more than a week.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Don Denton, trouble shooter for the Inter-World Mining Corporation,
watched the sailors stowing the supplies aboard his small scout rocket,
checking the items from the manifest sheet as they were packed in the
storage compartments.
"That takes care of that," he said finally, signing the sheet with his
thumbprint. "Now, I'll be on my way."
The Skipper nodded, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose so,"
he agreed. "Are you sure you won't stay to dinner? I've got a cargo
of Martian _panyanox_ that should taste plenty good to you after two
months of spacing on vitamins."
Don Denton grinned, scrubbed a heavy hand through the reddish, curly
mop of hair that flamed above his craggy face. He shrugged, the leather
jacket growing taut across his deceptively wide shoulders.
"Nothing I'd like better," he said, "but I've got orders to get to
Venus and find out why the _Lanka_ shipments haven't been coming
through on schedule."
"Trouble?" Interest flared in the Skipper's eyes.
Don Denton laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "Probably some space tramp
landed and sold the men some Martian _Ganto_ seeds. They're probably
nursing such large hangovers that they can't work. I'll just take the
supplies on, give the boys a pep talk, then head back for Earth."
"All loaded, Captain," a sailor's voice came from the televisor screen.
Don Denton lounged to his feet. "So long, Captain," he said, "I'll
remember that _Panyanox_ invitation, the next time I run into you on
Mars."
"Sure, sure, of course!" The Skipper flushed. "Er, ah--, Denton?"
"Yes?" Don Denton turned from the door.
"I've got a passenger I want to transship to Venus."
Don Denton grinned, shook his head. "Sorry, Captain," he said, "but no
can do; company rules, you know."
"But this passenger--?"
"No," Denton said decisively. "In the first place, I can't carry
passengers on the scouter; and in the second place, I haven't the
slightest desire to be holed up with anybody. Sorry, but your passenger
will have to get a charter job for the trip."
"What I'm trying to tell you," the Skipper said, "is that Miss Palmer
has a Company pass to ride with you."
"Miss Palmer!" The trouble shooter frowned belligerently. "Any relation
to Palmer who is the manager on Venus?"
"Daughter, I think."
"Well, you can tell Miss Palmer for me that she's out of luck. Hell,
I'll make a bet she's one of two kinds of dames: Either she's the
flighty kind who thinks it's just too too divine to explore another
planet, or she's the needle-nosed kind who'd drive me nuts with her
complaints in half a clock-around!"
"I can assure you that she fits neither of those descriptions," the
Skipper said, smiled. "In fact, she's about the nicest bit of meteor
fluff that's crossed my rockets in many a day."
"Thank you, Captain," Jean Palmer said amusedly from behind Don Denton.
She walked past the trouble shooter, turned to face him squarely.
"Woman hater?" she finished quizzically.
Don Denton flushed, his tan deepening, his startlingly blue eyes
evading the mocking, brown eyes of the girl. He shifted nervously from
foot to foot, his collar suddenly tight and constricting.
"Er--no!" he said defensively, "I--er, well, just don't want any
company on my ship."
He felt the flush deepening beneath the level glance of the girl, and
hot blood was suddenly pounding at his temples.
The Captain had been right; certainly she didn't fit either of the
descriptions Don Denton had given. She was tall, her softly waved crown
of hair almost even with the trouble shooter's mouth. And the mannish
cut of her plastic dress only served to emphasize the femininity of her
body.
* * * * *
But Don Denton was not noticing such minor details; he was conscious
only of the incredible redness and smoothness of her lips and of the
level appraisal of her eyes. He shivered suddenly, vaguely aware that
he was unshaven, gangly, with too prominent teeth and ears.
"I have a pass to ride with you," the girl said mockingly. "Do you
think you can get around it?" Her tone changed, became suddenly,
subtly, frightened and bewildered. "Please," she finished, "I must go
with you! I haven't heard from my father in three months; I know that
something has happened to him!"
"Well," Don Denton frowned, was suddenly aware of the dim perfume of
her hair. "I guess, if you've got a pass, there's nothing I can do but
take you along."
"That's fine!" the Skipper said heartily, a trifle relievedly. "I told
Miss Palmer you'd probably be glad to give her a lift."
"I knew Mr. Denton wouldn't let me down," the girl said quietly, "I've
heard too many stories of his bravery and gallantry."
Don Denton grinned sheepishly, not absolutely certain as to whether the
girl was being ironical or not. He searched her face, felt a distinct
shock to his nerves when his gaze met with hers.
"Just routine," he countered deprecatingly.
He shrugged, shook hands quickly with the Skipper. "I'll see you in a
couple of months. Thanks for bringing the supplies out of your regular
lane; it saved me several weeks of spacing to Earth and back."
"That's all right, Denton," the Captain said, "I still remember the
fight you put up when those Gillies attacked my ship off--"
"Sure, sure!" Don Denton cut the flow of the other's words, swung to
face the girl. "I'll have a man put your duffle aboard, Miss Palmer."
She smiled, her teeth flashing whitely. "Thank you, but I had them
taken aboard half an hour ago."
Don Denton blinked in surprise, and the corners of his mobile lips
twitched in a wry smile. "All right, then," he said, "let's be getting
on; if we miss connections, we'll have to chase Venus halfway round the
sun."
He led the way down the corridor, his thoughts a maelstrom in his
mind. He was not a woman hater, nor did he care for them especially,
but there was something about the level-eyed slender girl at his back
that stirred him deeply. He shook his head slightly, wished that he had
not stopped to pick up the supplies from the freighter. He had a vague
premonition that the even tenor of his life was destined to be rudely
shattered by an indefinable something that he could not fight with the
strength of his rangy body nor the solidness of his fists.
* * * * *
The _Comet_ sped in a long parabola from the side of the freighter, a
long skid-mark of flaming rocket gas in the darkness behind, and headed
obliquely toward Venus which gleamed greenly far ahead.
Don Denton pressed the last of a series of studs on the control panel,
cut in the robot-pilot, then grinned admiringly at Jean Palmer.
"Sorry I was rude back there," he apologized.
The girl's answering smile was like a ray of light in the cabin. She
stretched lazily in the padded seat, brushed a vagrant lock of hair
from her eyes.
"I guess it was my fault," she admitted. "I never stopped to think that
you might not like the job of playing space taxi with me. But," her
eyes were suddenly serious, "I simply have to see if anything is wrong
with my father."
Don Denton grinned. "There's nothing to be afraid of on Venus," he said
confidently. "I've been there half a dozen times, and all I've found
was a water world, with very little land. About the only life on the
planet is of a fish type, which lives deep in the oceans."
"That's what my father told me."
"Well, he was exactly right; it's about the deadest world I've seen.
There are nine patches of land, probably mountain tops, and each of
them are covered with _Lanka_ plants. I suppose you know that that is
what your father is doing there--that is, he's cutting and rendering
the plants for their oil?"