She screamed suddenly, clutched wildly at the arms of her seat. And the
motion sent her flying into the air, where she struggled for a balance
that wasn't there.
"Easy," Don Denton said, reached out, drew her back to her seat. "It's
that blasted gravity rotor again!"
* * * * *
He went sideways from his seat, catching a flashlight from a wall-clip
as he did so, then pulled himself by the wall hand rail toward the rear
of the cabin.
"I'm going to be ill," Jean said weakly.
"Chin up," Don Denton said sharply. "I'll have everything all right in
a moment. The clutch on the gravity rotor is about shot, and it quits
on me every now and then. When the gravity gets back to normal, you'll
feel all right again."
He turned on his back, wedged himself beneath a small metal box
clamped to the rear wall, swinging the light of the hand flash into
the interior of the box. He made a one-handed adjustment, and normal
gravity grasped them again.
The light of his flash faded, went out, as the gravity became
stabilized, then flashed on again the moment the trouble shooter edged
from beneath the gravity rotor.
Jean Palmer gasped, and slowly color came back to her white face. Don
Denton nodded to himself, strode back to the pilot's seat, slumped
indolently into its padded depths. He flicked the switch on the
flashlight, pushed it into its wall-clip.
"What made the light go out?" Jean asked curiously.
Don Denton shrugged. "The rotor creates some sort of an energy
shield," he said, "that blankets out all electrical energy." He gazed
solicitously at the girl. "Feel better now?"
She nodded. "I think so," she said. "I just felt so funny--as though
everything in me was upside down."
Don Denton grinned. "I know," he said, "I started spacing when a man
rode a ship with the seat of his pants; I've been plenty sick from lack
of gravity. Hah! this new crop of spacers don't know what it is to live
without gravity for months, then find they can't walk the minute they
land on some planet--because of gravity pull."
"You've done that?" Jean's eyes were wide with wonder.
Don Denton grinned self-consciously. "Without bragging," he said, "I
think I've just about done everything and seen everything. There's very
little that would surprise me."
Jean laughed, and the sound was a tinkling overtone above the dim roar
of the rockets. "You know," she said, "you're a rather remarkable
person!"
Don Denton flushed, dry-washed his hands in embarrassment. "Aw," he
said self-consciously, "I'm just doing a job."
"Well, I like you."
Don Denton became very busy with the compact integrator, his hands
suddenly all thumbs.
Jean Palmer leaned over, touched his arm with a slender hand. "I'm glad
you're the one taking me to my father," she said. "If there is anything
wrong, I'm certain you can straighten it out."
"I'll try." Don Denton met the girl's eyes squarely. "Now you'd better
take a dose of sleep rays; after all, it will be about eighty hours
before we land."
"Sleep rays on a space ship!"
"Yes!" Don Denton paused with one hand on a control stud. "You see, a
scouter isn't like a pleasure craft or a freighter. Nine-tenths of the
time aboard is spent sleeping--conserves food and oxygen."
"All right, Don," Jean said, relaxed comfortably in the cushions.
* * * * *
Don Denton pressed the stud, sighed deeply as the purple ray coned
down from the overhead bulb and bathed the girl in its nimbus. He
straightened the girl's arms a trifle, careful not to permit his head
to be touched by the rays, then swung back to the integrator. Jean
slept peacefully, a slight smile skidding a dimple into sight, the
curves of her breasts rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.
Don Denton shrugged, bent again over the integrator. He set up the
combination he desired, pressed keys, glanced absently at the answer.
Nodding, he set the course on the robot-pilot, sighed gustily, sank
tiredly into the heavy cushions of his seat.
He sat quietly for moments, the smile going from his eyes, a slight
frown thinning his mobile mouth. He was more worried than he would
have admitted. For this was the first time in eighteen months that the
_Lanka_ shipments had not come through on schedule from Venus.
The fern-like _Lanka_ plants were of incalculable value to the
inhabited worlds, for the oil rendered from the plants was the only
perfect cure for cancer and numerous other diseases. Its curative
powers had been discovered accidentally by two wrecked spacers on
Venus three years before when one of the spacers had been cured of
space-tuberculosis by an enforced diet of cooked plants and Venusian
fish.
Don Denton remembered the regularity with which the shipments had been
coming through and the worry the head office had felt when the oil had
failed to arrive on time two months before. He had been called in as
a last resort, because he knew the planet from past experience, and
because of his reputation as a trouble shooter who always got results.
He was worried now. For despite his assurances to Jean Palmer, he knew
that there were dangers on Venus. In the depths of its oceans, great,
foul, nightmarish creatures lived sluggish lives, and if some accident
should rouse them to action, they might well wipe out an entire camp in
a few moments. Then again, because of the incredible value of the oil,
space pirates might have raided the base camp, murdered the men, then
escaped with the oil already rendered.
"Damn!" Don Denton said thoughtfully.
He glanced at the sleeping girl, smiled slightly. He felt a sudden
protective instinct in his heart that had never been there before, and
his hands clenched unconsciously at the thought of what disappointments
and heartaches might lie ahead for her.
He shrugged then, grinned wryly into space. Well, there was nothing he
could do now but wait. If there was some sort of trouble on Venus, he
would have enough trouble then in trying to cope with it; there was no
sense in worrying himself stiff about it now. He'd know soon enough.
He clicked on the automatic mechanism of the sleep ray, drifted into
dreamless slumber as the purple rays erased all conscious thought from
his mind.