II

Venus was no longer a green planet; it loomed ahead like some woolly

ball spinning in space. The _Comet_ circled it warily, Don Denton's

fingers resting lightly on the control studs of the instrument panel,

his lips pursed a bit as he drove the ship closer to the clouds.

"It will probably be several hours before we land," he explained to the

wide-eyed Jean at his side, "Trying to find the _Lanka_ camp in that

soup down there is quite a job in itself, even after I get the _Comet_

through fifteen miles of cloud banks."

Jean was a trifle pale, but there was a spark of confidence in her

eyes. "I think," she said quietly, "I feel like you must have felt the

first time you landed here."

Don Denton smiled. "There's no feeling like it," he admitted. "I felt

it first on the Earth's Moon, and I knew then that I'd never be able

to settle down into some routine job. I suppose I'll end my life still

feeling that thrill, still seeking out hidden places in the universe."

He pressed a firing stud, and the _Comet_ flashed down toward Venus.

For the first time, there was a sense of movement, as the spinning

clouds rushed to meet the ship. Always before, with nothing relative

to compare their speed with, and because the inertia-field sent all

molecules of ship and contents ahead at the same rate of speed, there

had been the sensation of staying at rest in the blackness of space.

Now, there was something breathtaking in the way that the ship seemed

to be dropping.

Then the first tendrils of cloud whipped lazily about the _Comet_.

There was the thrum of the rockets rising to a higher crescendo, and

the force screen's voltemeter leaped higher to combat the friction of

the tenuous air. Another second, and the great cottony batts of cloud

pressed with invisible force against the ship.

And then there was only a grey darkness outside, all light from the sun

nullified by the thicknesses of clouds.

Don Denton drifted the ship lower, his fingers flying over the control

studs, handling the ship's weight as a horseman controls his mount by a

light touch of the reins.

There seemed to be no mental passage of time while the ship was

sinking. Moments flowed into each other, and always the clouds seemed

to be pressing with a tenuous strength at the quartzite ports.

Then they were through the clouds, and a thousand feet below the ocean

tossed and tumbled with a majestic silence that was thrilling and

menacing.

Don Denton's breath escaped with a tiny sigh of relief, and his eyes

flashed to the girl's face, then back again to the window. He was

conscious of the close scrutiny she had given him during those tense

moments, and he wondered, irrelevantly, if he measured up to her

standards.

"Where's all of the light coming from?" she asked curiously.

"From some sort of minute animal life in the oceans. The water is so

filled with tiny worm-like forms of life that I doubt if you could

find one cupful of clear water anywhere. They glow like fireflies, and

the light generated is reflected back from the low clouds." Don Denton

grinned. "I used to call Venus the 'Light bulb planet'!"

"It's beautiful!" Jean breathed in rapture.

Don Denton nodded, swung the _Comet_ directly North. Beneath them, the

ocean was a shifting, white-capped wash of silvery light, gleaming

with a phosphorescent sheen, its turbulence a shifting kaleidoscope of

shattered colors.

And then the water was broken, and a scaly, blunt something darted out

of the water, fell crashing in a spray of light.

"What was that?" Jean whispered.

Don Denton swallowed heavily. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Probably

some deep sea monster; and he must have been fully three hundred feet

long!"

He sent the _Comet_ flashing ahead, the memory of the scaly monster

tensing his broad shoulders in a shiver of disquiet. Jean sat silently

at his side, quiet for once, and he felt a quick stab of emotion when

he read the worry that lay deep in her eyes.

They cruised for almost an hour before Don Denton located the base

camp. It had moved from island One to island Three, and its earthly

regularity in the green of the _Lanka_ jungle was pleasant to see.

"Five minutes," Don Denton said cheerfully, "and you can surprise your

dad."

"Oh, hurry!" Jean said, bent close to the port-window.

* * * * *

Don Denton nodded silently, but there was suddenly a great fear in him.

For nowhere in the camp below was there a sign of life.

Smoke was not bulging from the short stack of the rendering plant, and

men did not dart from the small shacks to greet the landing ship. The

camp appeared to be deserted.

"I don't see anyone?" Jean said puzzledly, fearfully.

Don Denton forced a confident laugh, but his eyes were entirely

serious. "They're all probably out in the jungle grubbing up the best

grade of plants. Don't worry, when they hear the rockets, they'll come

stringing in plenty fast."

He set the _Comet_ down squarely in the middle of the clearing, touched

studs, and there was an immediate cessation of noise and vibration.

"This is it," Don Denton said quietly. "Slip on an oxy-helmet, and

we'll take a look around."

He smiled away some of the growing fear in the girl's eyes, but there

was a growing panic in him that he could not quell.

He could see no one; there was not the slightest sign of life. Yet

there should be fifteen men working here. Don Denton shrugged, and

there was suddenly a steely gleam in his eyes. He slipped the light

helmet over his head, fastened the air-tight cloth beneath his chin.

"Let's go, Jean," he said into the tiny transmitter of his helmet. "Be

careful not to dislodge your helmet; the air will make you ill unless

you are acclimated to it."

He could see the tiny tremulous smile on her lips, and he held her hand

tightly for a moment. Then he spun the cogs of the port-door, felt the

slight breeze about his body as the higher compressed air of the ship

soughed into the heavy air of Venus.

He helped the girl to the muddy ground, lifted the ati-gun from his

belt, paced slowly toward the main hut, his eyes flashing everywhere

for the slightest sign of danger, absolutely certain now that things

here were even worse than he had conceived them to be.

There was an indefinable threat of danger in the stillness of the great

clearing that tightened Don Denton's nerves. Far away, could be heard

the dull rumble of the eternal waves on the island's edge, and closer

could be heard the soft hissing of the air through the green _Lanka_

fronds.

The clearing had been baked brick-hard with an ati-cannon; now its

surface was spotted with soupy puddles of green mud where the every-day

rains had seeped into some hollow.

Two freighters squatted near the North edge of the clearing, their

dulled sides scabrous with great patches of growing rust, their empty

ports like great blank staring eyes watching the two terrestrials

slowly approach the main hut.

"Don," Jean pressed close to the trouble shooter's tall body, "where is

everybody?"

Don Denton shook his head, a furry spider of apprehension crawling

up his spine, his eyes piercing and searching as he held the ati-gun

in a tremorless hand. He walked slowly forward, the eeriness of the

silver-lighted scene touching his sensibilities.

[Illustration: _The dis-gun wailed in Denton's fist._]

He fired the moment the slug-like creature came from the hut's door,

the wailing hiss of the gun strangely loud. There was a silent scream

that crescendoed and titillated in diminishing waves, then the creature

collapsed into a protoplasmic mass that quivered horribly for a moment

and then was still.

"Don!" Jean said fearfully.

The trouble shooter's face was like chiselled granite, and he stepped

to the door of the hut and rayed the stinking mass of bubbly flesh out

of existence. He handed the twin ati-gun to the girl, nodded toward the

hut's interior.

"Stay here," he snapped, "while I take a look inside. Shoot at anything

that moves."

He smiled then for the first time, seeing the determination in the

lines of the girl's chin. Then he whirled, stepped within the doorway,

his nerves icy cold, the flat muscles of his body ready for instant

darting action.

He stopped, his breathing a startled gasp. Eight men were within the

hut, eight men lying in the stillness of death.

"Good God!" he said, paced swiftly across the floor to the tiers of

bunks along the far wall.

He went from man to man, feeling for a pulse on each man, the cold

sweat of terror breaking on his forehead when he was finally convinced

that all eight of the hut's occupants were dead.

He shivered, backed to the door, his eyes darting about the cabin, a

sharp prodding prescience within him that every movement of his was

being watched. He closed the door, stood speechlessly beside the girl

for a moment.

"What is it, Don; what did you find?" Jean's fingers tightened on his

biceps.

* * * * *

Don Denton swallowed heavily, avoided the girl's eyes. "Let's take a

look at the other sleeping hut," he said tonelessly, tried to keep the

horror he felt from his expression.

"There is something wrong; I know it!" Jean went rigid, her breath

catching in her throat. "My father's in there!"

Don Denton shook his head. "No," he said sharply, "he isn't in there;

he's probably in the other hut." He caught the girl's arm. "Let's take

a look, before something happens that's too big for me to handle."

They walked swiftly, their guns ready for instant firing, strangely

comforted by each other's presence. At the doorway of the second hut,

Jean again stood guard while the trouble shooter entered.

He stood for a moment within the doorway of the hut, his nerves

crawling when he saw an almost exact duplicate of the first scene. The

only difference lay in the number of men supine in their bunks: there

were but six here.

Don Denton winced, recognizing a corpse on a lower bunk as the

grey-haired father of the girl outside. He felt a sick futility beating

at his mind, when he remembered the reassuring words he had spoken to

the girl but a few short hours before.

He moved about the hut, seeking for the slightest clue as to the cause

of the men's deaths, finally turning back to the door, his search

unrewarded, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting theories and thoughts.

"Jean?" he said quietly, closed the door behind him on the horrible

scene within.

Blood drained from his face, leaving it suddenly haggard and drawn.

He whirled, with his back to the hut's wall, the ati-gun jutting

nervelessly before him in complete command of the clearing.

Not a thing moved; there was only the slightest of breezes. He felt the

sweat trickling down the flat planes of his cheeks, and the metal of

the hut felt incredibly warm against his back.

"_Jean?_" he called again, desperately.

There was only the muffled hollow vibration of the eternal waves

pounding against the island. No voice answered his cry.

Jean Palmer was gone as though she had never been.

* * * * *

Don Denton stood rigidly for a moment, a nameless fear tugging at his

mind, his blue eyes suddenly black with fear for the safety of the girl.

"Jean?" he called again, knowing that there would be no answer.

He ran lithely across the end of the clearing, burst into the first

living-hut, made a quick search, dashed back outside, a monstrous fear

and hate intermingled in his mind.

He went more slowly toward the first freighter, slipped within the

uncogged port, moved even more slowly as he made a complete search of

the shadowy corners of the hold and cabins. He found nothing but the

mold and rust that came from the steamy atmosphere.

The second freighter proved to be empty also. And he stood for a moment

outside its rusty length, his lips a thin white line, his eyes narrowed

into slits.

Then, never permitting himself to relax, he made a complete search of

the grounds, investigating the huts again, searching the rendering

sheds, finally stopping, his heart thudding painfully, in the exact

center of the clearing.

He considered the situation briefly, and his mind came to an abrupt

stop against a wall of thought. Either the girl had disappeared into

the _Lanka_ jungle because she thought she had seen something or

someone there, or she had been captured, silently, by the menace that

had murdered the fourteen men who lay in the bunks within the huts.

Don Denton backed slowly toward the _Comet_, his ati-gun tight in his

hand, never relaxing, ready to fire at the first sign of a living thing

that moved. He uncogged the door-port, slipped through, cogged the door

shut again. Then he searched the tiny ship from bow to stern, making

absolutely certain that he was alone.

Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he sagged into the

cushions of the pilot's seat, tried to make sense out of the sudden

disappearance of the girl.

Obviously, there was something wrong with the island. Fourteen men were

dead, _Lanka_ plants rotting in the shed, the freighters empty hulks on

the clearing's edge.

But what could that menace be? He knew, personally, that the only life

on Venus was in the oceans, a life that had not progressed far enough

to permit it to cope with the brains and skill of men.

Yet Jean Palmer was gone, taken by the--the _things_ that had slain

fourteen men without leaving wounds on their bodies.

Don Denton swore bitterly, his hands clutching the arms of the seat

until the knuckles were like polished bone. It was only too evident

that the terror had struck but recently; the men's bodies were not

decomposed in the slightest.

The trouble shooter came from his seat, slid back the panel of the arms

cabinet. He slipped into the silk-like folds of the cellu-ray suit,

first discarding the oxy-helmet. Then he fitted on the wide belt that

held the super ati-guns, checked them to make certain their loads were

at maximum power.

He felt a slight dizziness from the tainted air that had filled the

ship when the port had been opened, shrugged the feeling away with the

knowledge that his space-hardened body could easily combat the slight

toxic poison without effort.

He packed a small knapsack with a compact medicine box and food, left

a water bottle behind, knowing that he could find rain puddles in the

heavy _Lanka_ leaves.

The rain started then without warning, coming down in a solid smashing

sheet, the blasting wind rocking the _Comet_ with titanic strength. Don

Denton scowled through the storm, his vision stopped five feet from

the quartzite port window by the smashing curtain of water from the low

hanging clouds.

He paced the control room in tight anxiety, feeling the fear mounting

within him, conscious of the driving urgency of quick action, but

knowing that he could not fight the torrential downpour.

The rain battered down in a solid sheet for more than an hour.

And then the rain was over, and there was only the eerie silver light

reflected from the clouds. Don Denton uncoiled impatiently from his

seat, fitted on the knapsack, slipped the oxy-helmet over his head,

tied the bottom strings about his throat.

He felt a momentary panic at the thought of stepping from the safety of

his ship on the land where death might strike unseen. Then he grinned

wryly, shrugged broad shoulders. He had his job to do, a job that he

had elected for himself. Too, there was the memory of Jean's presence

that drove him on. If for no other reason, he could not desert the girl

who had expressed such complete faith in himself.

He twisted the cogs of the port, set the vibra-ray so that no one else

could open the door unless he was along. He slipped a bit on the mud of

the clearing, turned, slammed the port shut. Then, with a super ati-gun

in his right hand, he started across the clearing toward the break in

the jungle that was obviously a path cut by the _Lanka_ hunters.

It was then that he halted, his eyes widening in surprise, the sound of

his breathing loud in his oxy-helmet. He swung in a complete circle,

stifling his gasp of wonder, feeling the fear knotting in his stomach,

and conscious of the scaly fingers of insanity plucking at his reason.

_For men moved about the rendering hut, and steam spurted from the tall

stacks._

Don Denton half-crouched, and a soundless snarl of amazement twisted

his lips. His eyes flashed from the working men around the clearing,

blinked bewilderedly at what they saw.

Or, rather, what they didn't see.

For the freighters were gone, vanished from where they had been, only

deep gouges in the ground to show that they had ever landed.