A nameless horror poured from the sea-bottoms of
Venus, driven by a soulless intelligence that
could not be beaten. Four Earthmen stood in the
way of the voracious horde, knowing they could not
escape--but swearing they would not admit defeat.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
MacAloon rose in the stirrups of his saddle-lizard. His guide, a
Venusian fishman, trembled nervously at the mount's side and pointed
straight ahead. MacAloon followed the direction of the quivering
four-jointed, scaly arm.
"See, bossmac?" the reptilian native hissed in fright. "Bosslimpy
speak truth. Cen'pedes ready to march. Soon they attack us. Then is all
over."
On the other lizard, little Al Birchall tried to peer through the
bright white fog of Venus. It was like attempting to gaze through a
bedsheet.
MacAloon lifted a pair of infra-red binoculars to his eyes. Instantly,
the glasses dispelled the blinding mist.
"See anything, Mac?" Birchall asked.
Mac stared ahead without answering. Before him lay the black,
motionless ocean which covered all the planet except a few hundred
large islands. At the shore he saw movement, an enormous inky wave that
flowed ponderously up over the land and steadily inched forward.
Countless thousands of foot-long creatures were swarming out of the
water and falling into dense marching ranks. The beasts, like huge
centipedes, each had dozens of swift legs. The front half was legless,
though, and looked like the human part of a centaur. It wasn't only the
posture that made the resemblance. They had round heads, shaped like
skulls, with deadly mandibles; and clever arms and hands grew out of
their shoulders.
Centaurpedes--even more than the heat, the mud and the fog, they were
man's most murderous enemy on Venus.
Silently, Mac handed the binoculars to Al Birchall.
"Bossmac," the fishman pleaded, "we go 'way, not fight cen'pedes? They
kill and eat us; nothing we can do."
Mac watched Al lower the glasses from his eyes. He did it very slowly
at first, then grinned when he caught Mac's gaze, and flipped the
binoculars across.
"They sure look dangerous," he said.
"They are," Mac answered quietly. "They can strip the flesh off our
bones in three minutes flat."
Below them, between the tall bulk of the two mounts, the fishman's
long, flat head turned from Mac's face to Al's.
"Bossal, tell bossmac we not able fight cen'pedes," he begged
sibilantly. "They come--" The thin, scaled hands waved excitedly, "like
biggest army you ever see, make war on mine. You kill and kill, more
come. Please, we go to man city!"
MacAloon jerked his lizard's reins around in the direction of the mine.
Al's mount came alongside. The fishman groaned, then began trotting
before them on swift webbed feet. They splashed over the eternal mud,
through the ever-present white fog.
Should they give up the fight against the shrewd, heartbreakingly
persistent vermin? If they did, they would have to abandon the mine
which had become their lifework. They would have to blow up the place
before retreating.
For all life on Venus was amphibious, but centaurpedes were
deliberately trying to quit the water, knowing their semi-civilization
could reach its mechanistic goal only on land.
Unable to prop the porous native rock with the brittle, primitive
plastics they used instead of metals, they were striving to take over
an iron mine that had already been started by human engineers. Then,
with the metal they could produce, they would make tools and raise
cities ... and manufacture weapons with which to push men clear off the
planet.
Their forays had forced a number of mines out of existence. Two years
ago, before Al Birchall became the fourth partner here, an undersea
colony of 'pedes swarmed down on this place. Surrounded on all sides,
the men had put up a long, bitter fight. If Adonis City, half around
the globe, hadn't finally sent a rocket ship, they would have been lost.
In the rocket, Mac had tried flame-strafing with the bow jets, swooping
back and forth across the black mass of besiegers. But the wily animals
merely dug deep in the mud and waited till he passed overhead, then
continued the attack. Since he couldn't be everywhere at once, part of
the army was always surging forward. At best, the strafing only slowed
down the assault.
But then Limpy Austin, up in the lookout tower, sighted foraging
parties in the rear, dragging up food supplies in the form of gigantic
dead meat-eaters. Mac had rocketed over the rear of the army, burning
the food into useless charred fragments. Starving, the attackers were
at last forced to retreat to their ocean city, but only until they
could figure out a new strategy.