In the sweet Venusian spring, when iridescent
butterflies swarmed and deer-things scampered,
it was both necessary and good for
Richard Farris to kill George Pearce.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In my mind the memory is still painful and raw, like a wound that has
refused to heal. I have only to close my eyes to see Pearce leaping
toward me, his face a twisted mask of fear and rage. And I can feel
the machine-pistol jerking in my hand as a stream of tungsten-steel
pellets stopped his maddened rush, washing away all motion and
expression in the utter quiescence of death.
Yes, I killed George Pearce, whom the world will remember as one of
its greatest chemical scientists and one of the three members of the
ill-fated first expedition to Venus. I _had_ to kill him.
To explain the circumstances which led to it requires that I start
at the beginning. Police authorities have ordered me to make this
statement as clear and detailed as possible.
Everyone recalls the furor created by the privately sponsored launching
of the first rocket to Mars, which beat by several months a government
project aimed at the same goal. The government rocket blew up a short
distance beyond the Heaviside Layer, but a little over a year and
a half later the privately-owned space vessel returned. And a new
furor was aroused, not so much by the fact that the expedition had
successfully returned as that it brought back a large fortune in gold,
platinum, and gems. The explorers as well as their backers were each
made financially independent for the rest of their lives.
Man's natural cupidity was excited to fever pitch. The planets were no
longer regarded as milestones on the road to scientific knowledge, but
as store houses brimming with fabulous treasures. More rockets were
hastily launched by various groups in different countries, but the
attempts were defeated by the very impatience which inspired them. The
rockets, too quickly and inefficiently constructed, exploded soon after
leaving Earth, or, if they reached outer space at all, were never heard
from again.
It was this state of affairs that prevailed when Anson Durwent finished
the construction of the _Solarian_. A scientific genius made wealthy by
various patents, he built the vessel entirely out of his own funds. Nor
were his motives those of amassing further wealth, for the conditions
which he set were that the _Solarian_ was to conduct a true voyage
of exploration, and that any profits arising from the discovery of
precious metals or minerals were to be divided equally among everyone
involved in the expedition.
The crew of the _Solarian_ consisted of George Pearce, Barton Sandley,
and myself, Richard Farris. Three or less was the usual number on these
early rockets, due to the demands upon space made by fuel, food,
and equipment. Pearce was the chemist and captain of the expedition,
Sandley the biologist and photographer, and I the physicist and pilot.
None of the excitement produced by interplanetary ventures was
attendant upon our takeoff. Only a few newscasters whom Durwent had
notified at the very last minute were present. And these were bored by
something which had become mere routine, and were plainly skeptical of
our chances for success.
Our objective was the mysterious, cloud-covered planet Venus. It was
an obvious choice, since it was the nearest planet to Earth other than
Mars, and as far as we knew had not yet been reached.
* * * * *
I shall not detail the long flight through space, monotonous after
the first novelties had died. But it is necessary to record that the
interminable months and the restricted confines of the ship produced
a strain upon our nerves that led to frequent, heated quarrels over
the most trivial matters. It is certain that the effect upon our minds
caused a serious unbalance, explaining many of the irrational actions
which we made later.
The landing upon the surface of Venus was the most difficult part of
the voyage. I brought the ship down through the miles-deep layer of
clouds like a blind man groping for obstructions in an unfamiliar room.
Once under the clouds, however, our progress was easier. I forgot my
exhaustion in a surge of renewed eagerness for exploration.
After a short discussion between Pearce, Sandley, and myself, it was
agreed to take an aerial reconnaissance before landing. I sent the
_Solarian_ into a slow cruise over the surface, while Sandley busied
himself with the special cameras and Pearce began taking samples of the
atmosphere.
Venus proved to be a wild and fantastic world. To picture it in any
great detail is impossible. It was too vast, too different. My mind
retains only a sort of montage of turbulent seas dotted with immense
islands, mighty jagged mountains, and endless lush sprawling jungles
in unearthly yellow and green hues. And it seemed to exude an aura of
vibrant youth, a kind of primeval grandeur.
We saw no cities, buildings, or other indications of the existence of
intelligent beings. I don't believe we expected to find any. On Mars
there had been only incalculably ancient ruins, long since crumbled
into dust. Mars had been too old for a civilized race, as Venus was too
young.
Our survey quickly showed that an island on one part of the planet was
as wild and rugged as an island on another, so that a landing site
could be chosen haphazardly for all the difference it made. We selected
a relatively clear area in a great valley on one of the islands that
happened to be under us at the time, and I brought the _Solarian_ to
rest. Only then did I realize how tired I was.
Pearce, rechecking his initial tests of the atmosphere, reported that
the carbon dioxide content was not as high as had been expected. We
would be able to venture from the ship without the necessity of wearing
oxygen helmets. The lighter gravity of Venus, lessening muscular effort
and thereby the need for deep or quick breathing, would be an aiding
factor.
We didn't leave the ship immediately, however. Like myself, Pearce and
Sandley had become aware upon landing of being exhausted, and it was
agreed to sleep first. Later we ate, and then arming ourselves with
machine-pistols and various pieces of scientific equipment, we unsealed
the port and stepped out upon the surface of Venus.
It was warm and humid, but not oppressively so. The air seemed
strangely heavy to our lungs, laden with a host of rich, exotic odors.
There was a deep, somnolent quiet, broken at intervals by faint pipings
and twitterings from unseen creatures that might have been birds. A
warm, soft wind stirred the vivid foliage of queer trees and shrubs at
the edges of the clearing.
Sandley murmured, "Not bad at all. Eden must have been a little like
this."
Pearce shrugged. "Maybe--but we'd better keep in mind that this is a
strange world. There may be dangers here of which we know nothing as
yet."
With this admonition prominent in our thoughts, we got to work, setting
up our equipment, analyzing samples and making notes. The days that
followed were more or less a repetition of this. We were constantly on
the alert at first and seldom wandered very far from the ship. But as
we encountered no inimical life forms, either plant or animal, we were
gradually encouraged to roam further and further beyond the clearing.
* * * * *
Sandley was busy with his camera, when not otherwise occupied with
biological studies. He was often gone for hours at a time. I was thrown
much in Pearce's company, since my work was frequently connected in
various ways with his.
"I wonder if we'll turn up anything, like they did on the Mars
expedition," Pearce said one day, gazing about him with a narrow,
speculative look.