_On Venus, if one rings a doorbell, or bangs
on a locked gate at night, it is adventure. You
never know who--or what--will answer your summons.
The door swings slowly open and you brace yourself
to look. Will it be maid--or monster--or both?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories July 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Wherever men gather and talk, someone is sure to mention Khaljean's,
on Venus. Men will always be fascinated by tales of the strange and
wonderful and fantastic, and Khaljean's--zoo, petshop, wild animal
supply house--is the stuff from which legends are made. One hears of
the place on Mars or Earth, on Titan or Rhea, on Callisto or Ganymede,
even in the subsurface mines of Pluto or the curious twilight outposts
on Mercury, and some of the yarns will probably lessen the tedium
of light-year watches when the first manned spacer pushes beyond the
frontiers of the solar system.
Most of the stories are 21st century versions of the tall tale, for
both establishment and owner stagger imagination and breed fabulous
accounts. A rumor that Khaljean will fabricate to order any nightmarish
monster from synthetic flesh and organic spare parts is obvious
exaggeration. The claim that Khaljean can mate any curious life-form
captured by far-roving hunters is also false--since he failed twice.
Khaljean loves animals and collects them chiefly for pleasure. He will
sell some for pets and for educational exhibitions, but for each one
sold he keeps ten. Everyone knows that he has frequently risked death
rather than kill or injure a living creature.
Of all his zoo's wonders, none can compare with Khaljean--for man is
the most fantastic of animals, and Khaljean is the most extraordinary
of men. Khaljean is both public figure and man of mystery. Nobody knows
his race or origin, and nowadays nobody asks. With the epidemics of
mutation in the Earth-colonies of Venus, and the standard gene-tangents
accepted among Venusian natives, such curiosity is bad form. And
dangerous.
So Khaljean's, and the stories about it, have grown steadily through
the years. The strangest story of all concerning the zoo is one that,
for good reason, no one tells. It happens to be true. One night, in
Castarona, by the Yellow Sea--
But the trouble did not start in Khaljean's. There are some who say it
did not finish there....
* * * * *
Austerity had finally caught up with Venus. Pao Chung's subcellar
fungweed hell in the native quarter of old Castarona was ordered to
close every night at midnight (Venus time)--or else. Being a Venusian
business man, a very rugged individualist, and a type Q mutant, Pao
Chung preferred to chance the "or else."
Among interesting people netted in the raid were:
Pao Chung, himself. Bland and over-civilized, he had grown rich from
traffic in illegal drugs and the outlawed mechanical hypnotizers.
Despite pointed ears and a gnome-like expression of detached malice,
he appeared to be reasonably human, even in his devotion to vice
as a means of livelihood. Anything illegal and profitable was his
vocation; his hobbies ranged from innocent blackmail to murder for fun.
Recent extension of his operations from slave trading into political
corruption had incensed even the grafting officials of Castarona. They
waited only an opportunity to catch him off-balance. Hence the raid.
Bat Ferris, spaceman, wanted on an open charge warrant sworn out by
Solar Surveys, Inc.,--and wanted preferably alive and in condition to
answer questions. Ferris had learned long ago not to give his right
name, but an alias is poor disguise if one's brain wave patterns
happen to be on file. And sometimes if they are not. Being off
"reservation" at all, and particularly without permission and lacking
his ident-armband, would mean real trouble. His capture in the raid
was pure mischance, due to entering Pao Chung's only for the virtuous
purpose of rescuing his partner and friend--
Bogus Angel, X-type mutant from South Venus, painfully well known to
police records. The only angelic attribute he could claim was his
twenty-foot wingspread. His face bore eerie resemblance to those
demonic gargoyles carved on medieval cathedrals. Fine fur in stripes of
ochre, burnt orange and smudged brown covered the visible parts of his
anthropoid anatomy, making him resemble a tiger left in the rain long
enough for the dyes to run.
Angel liked peace and quiet, and resorted to gambling, theft, arson,
aggravated assault and occasional assassination to obtain it. In
the icy morass of his soul, the few cracks vented sinister and
malicious humor. His greatest virtue was warped and violent loyalty to
Ferris--which was not necessarily a virtue from the official point of
view. Angel's appetite for and capacity for misuse of drugs, alcohol
and mechanical hypnotizers was miraculous--but when loaded, he was
dangerous.
Of nine others scooped in the raid, only one fact need be mentioned.
They are still in jail, which indicates lack of initiative or good
sense. Jailbreak on Venus is a sporting proposition, and inevitably
weeds the sheep from the goats. Pao Chung and Bogus Angel were
definitely goats, and Ferris may be considered a dark gray sheep. For
various reasons, it was essential to all three to escape--and quickly.
They stood together in the jailyard. Ferris and Angel had relapsed into
silence as Pao Chung approached.
"When are you planning escape?" Pao Chung asked with a directness not
expected of him.
Angel chuckled, but Ferris stared suspiciously. "How are you so sure we
intend to escape?" he parried.
Pao Chung shrugged. "A simple question easily answered. While your
friend was in my shop I manipulated the hypnotic machines. He talked,
chiefly about himself, but also about you. Enough to give me a clue
to your real identity, though probably he does not guess it himself.
I know that you dare not stay. Eventually, they will check your brain
wave patterns and learn ... too much. Which is the greater risk?"
"What business is that of yours?"
"None, directly," Pao Chung admitted. "But I enjoy fishing in troubled
waters. Other people's business can often be turned to my profit. In
this case, since we are being frank, I wish to leave with you when you
go. Take me along, or I talk before you can make the attempt."
Mayhem shone in Angel's eyes but Ferris put a restraining hand on the
furry arm.
* * * * *
"Dead men don't talk," urged Angel hopefully, his non-human tongue
licking feral lips.
"Wait," ordered Ferris. "If you kill him now, we will have no chance to
escape. It would draw too much attention to us."
"Besides being foolish," said Pao Chung smoothly. "Both of you are
strangers in Castarona. Where would you go? Who would hide you? How
long would you last?"
"Talk fast," Ferris advised gently. "If you know so much, you know we
have little to lose."
"Only your lives, perhaps. More, if my deductions are correct. Listen
to me. Like you, I am in greater peril here. My offense is a minor one.
By now, I should have been fined and let go with a warning. I suspect
the authorities of more sinister intentions. It will be easy to find a
pretext if they wish to be rid of me. I must escape. Alone, none of us
would stand a chance. Together, who knows...?"
Ferris consulted his partner with a glance, Angel nodded, but imposed a
question.
"And afterwards, what of your deductions?"
"I will forget them," promised Pao Chung.
"See that you do," said Ferris. "Or we will."
Pao Chung ignored the prophecy amiably. "I know a possible refuge
once we have managed the escape. A man in the city owes me favors. As
refuge, of course, it will be temporary. They will have mechanical
trackers after us eventually, but not at first. Electronic bloodhounds
would spoil their sport, make killing us too easy. But the nature of
our sanctuary will give them pause for a time. Complex, interesting and
dangerous, it is the one place in Castarona no one will think to look.
And there is enough space to hide in for quite a while."
"Such a place sounds interesting," Ferris agreed. "But I suppose you
know every unsavory rat's nest in Castarona."
"Not a rat's nest," said Pao Chung, smiling. "Much better. Have you
heard of Khaljean's?"
"Who hasn't? That should muddle the pursuit for a day or two. But can
you count on Khaljean?"
Pao Chung snorted. "Blackmail is my professional secret, so don't ask
details. Khaljean will grant us refuge. Not willingly, perhaps, but
I have enough on him to guarantee his conduct. How about a plan for
getting out of jail?"
Ferris laughed harshly. "You've paid your passage. Now we'll pay ours.
Hiding out with the rest of the wild animals seems very appropriate.
Listen carefully...."
Pao Chung and Angel bent an ear, nodding approval.
Jailbreak looks temptingly easy. Hazards of escape are mostly mental,
so far as barriers of barred doors and windows, locked gates, or walls
of stone, metal or plastic are concerned. Inner and outer doors are
frequently open. Prisoners move about at will, within defined limits.
Even there, no physical hindrance is put in the escapee's way. He may
pause at the door and indulge in whimsical repartee with guards or
warden. He may delay his exit long enough to exchange fond farewells
with friends and fellow inmates--and he had better.
Once outside the fun begins. It is open season on fugitive prisoners,
and the first guard lucky enough to fatally blast an escapee receives
two weeks with pay and a cash bonus for every hour short of the
deadline required for killing or recapturing a runaway. Any prisoner
who makes good his escape, and lasts a full three days is written off
the books. Either way, he is written off, since the guards make no
pretense of trying to recapture him alive, and the hunt is geared to
surprising efficiency.
It should be a spirited gamble, but few men ever make the attempt, and
fewer still succeed--so the sport may be said to languish. History
records only five men who made the finish line, though hundreds used
to try for it. Building walls opposite the gateway bear leprous scars
from blaster discharges which brought several daring attempts to
pyrotechnical conclusions.
Angel sauntered up to a guard on duty at the main gate. He looked
across the busy street at the flaking walls and evidences of extreme
heat. A bored guard glanced casually at the brawny Venusian, taking
curious note of his folded wings.
"Going out?" asked the guard with cynical humor. "You'll get those
wings singed, sonny."
Angel smiled, and a dream of violence lived briefly in his gem-faceted
eyes. "I might," he mused softly. "What handicap will you give me?"
"Close my eyes and count to five," offered the guard, grinning
viciously.
"Start counting," suggested Angel.
* * * * *
The guard's eyes and mouth opened wide, his grin changed to a glare,
alert and suspicious. At that moment, alarms blared in the cellblock
and jailyard.
Angel appeared to stumble, thrusting himself heavily against the guard.
Already off-balance, trying to look in two directions at once, the
man lurched halfway through the gate. Automatic selenium cell alarms
caught the movement and added their wild clamors to the jangling babel
from the building. Volumes of dense black smoke poured from doors and
windows of the cellblock's lower floors. From above came shrill screams
from the trapped inmates on upper floors.
"Fire!" yelled Angel. Then he was running, not through the gate but
towards the building.
Guards and prisoners milled in ultimate confusions. Jailyard was a
melee, but Angel forced a passage. At the cellblock doorway he paused
long enough to make sure that guards were rushing a long ladder of
light-metal alloy to the wall.
Inside, he plunged through churning confusions of smoke, sound and
invisible solids. In a city as inflammably built as Castarona, fire
inevitably creates panic. Equipment must be always at hand. Automatic
sprinklers were already deluging the threatened interior with water and
chemicals. Angel waded knee-deep in chemical foam to the stairway and
ascended against the pressure of a descending waterfall. Voices and
metallic alarms mingled in shrill discords.
Groping blindly and colliding with hysterical prisoners, Angel fought
up the spiraling cascades of the stairway like a trout seeking the
spawning grounds.
At the fourth floor, he got to a window and smashed the glass, then set
up a bedlam of howls and shrieks. From below, the light-alloy ladder
angled up toward him. Its hooks engaged the window ledge. With a yelp
of maniacal joy, he snatched it from the hands of the steadiers on
the ground, and gave a series of quick jerks to dislodge the mounting
guards and firefighters. With easy strength, he lifted it clear of the
ground and rung by rung hoisted it upward. Bat Ferris and Pao Chung
grasped it from the roof parapet and held on while he raced upstairs
again and helped them drag it to the roof.
The nearest building was just about a ladder-length away.
By prodigies, they raised it to the vertical, then let it slant in the
direction indicated. It toppled and swung in a wild arc. There was a
bad moment when all three realized that it did not quite reach. Acting
instantaneously, Angel lifted the pivot end, hooked his knees to the
parapet and extended the ladder by his own length. The far end struck
hard, bounced high, nearly tearing Angel from his precarious hold.
"Over!" he commanded, while the vibrations still jarred painfully
through his body.
Without argument, one at a time, Ferris and Pao Chung walked gingerly
across the perilous, swaying bridge. Kneeling, Ferris made sure the
ladder hooks were secure on the other parapet. He cried out.
Angel relaxed his kneeholds, beating his wings furiously and climbing
like a bird on a breaking treelimb. The ladder swung in giant's
pendulum. Angel moved with lightning speed and miraculous precision,
maintaining balance with threshing pinions while his lithe legs and
powerful arms carried him upward. He was mounting the upper rungs
when the ladder crashed savagely against the building side, writhing,
vibrating, tearing its hooks free and sending broken masonry crashing
into the dizzy depths below. Angel leaped clear, caught the parapet and
dragged himself up.
Guards boiled onto the jailhouse roof and laced blaster beams across
the chasm between buildings. Crouched low, the fugitives ran, taking
advantage of every cover. Explosions followed them and they raced
through pelting storms of molten stone and metal.
"Over the roofs," Ferris shouted. "They'll follow soon enough. Probably
the near streets are already blocked off, and we'll need all the time
we can snatch."
They halted for breath in the shelter of a vast dome. Pao Chung glanced
admiringly at his enforced allies. "Well-generaled," he commented.
"Even to the timing of the faked fires. Too bad such talent as ours
must be wasted on an audience as unappreciative as the police. However,
you've kept your bargain. We're out, and still alive, with a few
minutes' start, and the rooftops of the city to play hide and seek in.
Now, if we can reach Khaljean's Petshop."
"We'll reach it," Ferris promised grimly.