There are no adventures in space. Either a space-flight is safe
monotony, or quick death. But as the two Guardsmen approached the vast
mysterious dome of S.S.C. somewhere in the Mesozoic nightmare, the
vaporous, steaming, endlessly stretching rain-forest of Venus, they
stumbled with wracking weariness. Reptile-infested swamps and steaming
seas, foul-smelling, rotten--it was an incredibly perilous planet.
For five hours they had burned their way through giant flora and fauna
and sweat, H-guns hot with almost steady usage. And then Venard finally
parted some phosphorescent, glowing lichen and there the gigantic dome
rose up and up and lost itself in thick mist. But between them and
their goal was a hellish nightmare barrier, spilling stinking muck into
a placidly steaming sea.
Larson mopped at mud and sweat-slimed face, stared in fearful awe.
Venard swore. They were blocked by a moat, a green, oozing mud-river,
flowing oilily. From out of it, projected huge spines, ribs, and warts
covering towering, brilliant, multi-colored mounds--that _moved_! Scaly
mountains of shifting, radioactive lime. "Giant mollusc bed!" gasped
Venard. Low tide now, but during high tide the sea on their right would
back up this far. But high tide was hours distant.
There were thousands of the molluscs, every size, shape and color.
Venard's head went quickly to either side. "It goes out of sight both
ways, Kewpie Doll. Into the sea and into the swamp. Trapped!"