II

Communications Technician Harker took a deep pull at his mug of

steaming coffee, blinked his eyes hard at the swimming dials before

him, and lit a cigarette. Odysseus warning center was never quiet,

even now in the graveyard watch when all other lights were turned low

through the great ship's hull. Here in the neat grey room, murmuring,

softly-clicking signal equipment was banked against every wall in a

gleaming array of dials and meters, heavy power leads, black panels,

and intricate sheafs of colored wire. The sonar kept up a sleepy drone,

and radar scopes glowed fitfully with interference patterns, and the

warning buzzer beeped softly as the radar echoed back to its receivers

the rumor of strange planetary forces that radar hadn't been built to

filter through. What made the interference, base technicians couldn't

tell, but it practically paralyzed radio communication on all bands,

and blanketed out even radar warnings.

The cigarette burned his finger tips, and Harker jerked awake and

tried to concentrate on the letter he was writing home. It would be

microfilmed, and go on the next courier rocket. A movement at the

Warnings Room door, brought Harker's head up, and he saw Commander

Chapman, lean and grey, standing there.

"Good evening, sir. Come on in. I've got coffee on." The Communications

Technician took a pot from the glow heater at his elbow, and set out

another cup.

The Commander smiled tiredly, pulled out a stubby metal stool, and

sat across the low table from Harker, sipping the scalding coffee

cautiously. He looked up after a moment.

"What's the good word, Harker? Picked up anything?"

Harker ran his fingers through his mop of black hair, and grimaced.

"Not a squeak, sir. No radio, no radar. Of course, the interference may

be blanketing those. Creates a lot of false signals, too, on the radar

screens. But we can't even pick 'em up with long-range sonar. That

should get through. We're pretty sure they crashed, all right."

"How about our signals, Harker? Do you think we're getting through to

them?"

Harker leaned back expansively, happy to expound his specialty.

"Well, we've been sending radio signals every hour on the hour, and

radio voice messages every hour on the half hour. We're sending a

continuous sonar beam for their direction-finder. That's about all we

can do. As for their picking it up, assuming the rocket has crashed

and been totally knocked out, they still have a radio in the whippet

tank. It's a transreceiver. And they have a portable sonar set, one of

those little twenty-pound armored detection units. They'll use it as a

direction finder."

Chapman swirled the coffee around in the bottom of his cup and stared

thoughtfully into it.

"If they can get sonar, why can't we send them messages down the sonar

beam? You know, flick it on and off in Morse code?"

"It won't work with a small detector like they have, sir. With our big

set here, we could send them a message, but that outfit they have might

burn out. It has a limited sealed motor supply that must break down

an initial current resistance on the grids before the rectifiers can

convert it to audible sound. With the set operating continuously, power

drainage is small, but begin changing your signal beam and the power

has to break down the grid resistance several hundred times for every

short signal sent. It would burn out their set in a matter of hours.

"It works like a slide trombone, sort of. Run your slide way out, and

you get a slowly vibrating column of air, and that is heard as a low

note, only on sonar it would be a short note. Run your slide way up,

and the vibrations are progessively faster and higher in pitch. The

sonar set, at peak, is vibrating so rapidly that it's almost static,

and the power flow is actually continuous. But, starting and stopping

the set continuously, the vibrators never have a chance to reach a

normal peak, and the power flow is broken at each vibration in the

receiver--and a few hours later your sonar receptor is a hunk of junk."

"All right, Harker. Your discussion is vague, but I get the general

idea that my suggestion wasn't too hot. Well, have whoever is on duty

call me if any signals come through." The Commander set down his cup,

said goodnight, and moved off down the hushed corridor. Harker returned

to his letter and a chewed stub of pencil, while he scowled in a

fevered agony of composition. It was a letter to his girl, and it had

to be good.

* * * * *

Night had begun to fall over the forest roof, and stole thickening down

the muddy cathedral aisles of great trees, and Hague listened hopefully

for the halt signal from the whippet tank, which should come soon.

He was worried about Bucci who was laughing and talking volubly, and

the officer decided he must have a touch of fever. The dark, muscular

gunner kept talking about his young wife in what was almost a babble.

Once he staggered and nearly fell, until Hurd took the pneumatic gun

barrel assembly and carried it on his own shoulders. They were all

listening expectantly for the tank's klaxon, when a brassy scream

ripped the evening to echoing shreds and a flurry of shots broke out

ahead.

The scream came again, metallic and shrill as a locomotive gone amok;

yells, explosive-bullet reports, and the sound of hammering blows

drifted back.

"Take over, Brian," Hague snapped. "Crosse, Hurd--let's go!"

The three men ran at a stagger through the dragging mud around a turn

in the trail, and dropped the pneumatic gun swiftly into place, Hurd at

firing position, Crosse on the charger, and Hague prone in the slime

snapping an ammunition belt into the loader.

Two emergency flares some one had thrown lit the trail ahead in a

garish photographic fantasy of bright, white light and ink-black

shadow, a scene out of Inferno. A cart lay on its side, men were

running clear, the whippet tank lay squirming on its side, and above it

towered the screaming thing. A lizard, or dinosaur, rearing up thirty

feet, scaly grey, a man clutched in its two hand-like claws, while its

armored tail smashed and smashed at the tank with pile-driver blows.

Explosive bullets cracked around the thing's chest in blue-white flares

of light, but it continued to rip at the man twisting pygmy-like in

its claws--white teeth glinting like sabers as its blindly malevolent

screams went on.

"On target," Hurd's voice came strained and low.

"Charge on," from Crosse.

"Let her go!" Hague yelled, and fed APX cartridges as the gun coughed

a burst of armor-piercing, explosive shells into the rearing beast.

Hague saw the tank turret swing up as Whittaker tried to get his gun

in action, but a slashing slap of the monster's tail spun it back

brokenly. The cluster of pneumatic shells hit then and burst within

that body, and the great grey-skinned trunk was hurled off the trail,

the head slapping against a tree trunk on the other side as the reptile

was halved.

"Good shooting, Crosse," Hague grunted. "Get back with Brian. Keep the

gun ready. That thing might have a mate." He ran toward the main party,

and into the glare of the two flares.

"Where's Devlin?"

Clark, the navigation officer, was standing with a small huddle of men

near the smashed supply cart.

"Here, Hague," he called. His eyes were sunken, his face older in the

days since Hague had last seen him. "Devlin's dead, smashed between the

cart and a tree trunk. We've lost two men, Commander Devlin and Ellis,

the soils man. He's the one it was eating." He grimaced.

"That leaves twenty-three of us?" Hague inquired, and tried to sound

casual.

"That's right. You'll continue to cover the rear. Those horn sounds you

reported had Devlin worried about an attack from your direction. I'll

be with the tank."

Sergeant Brian was stoically heating ration stew over the cook unit

when Hague returned, while the crew sat in a close circle, alternately

eying nervously the forest at their backs, and the savory steam that

rose from Brian's mixture. There wasn't much for each of them, but it

was hot and highly nutritious, and after a cigarette and coffee they

would feel comfort for a while.

Crosse, seated on the grey metal charger tube he'd carried all

day, fingered the helmet in his lap, and looked inquiringly at the

Lieutenant.

"Well, sir, anybody hurt? Was the tank smashed?"

Hague squatted in the circle, sniffed the stew with loud enthusiasm,

and looked about the circle.

"Commander Devlin's dead, and Ellis. One supply cart smashed, but the

tank'll be all right. The lizard charged the tank. Balistierri thinks

it was the lizard's mating season, and he figured the tank was another

male and he tried to fight it. Then he stayed--to--lunch and we got

him. Lieutenant Clark is in command now."

The orange glow of Brian's cook unit painted queer shadows on the

strained faces around him, and Hague tried to brighten them up.

"Will you favor us with one of your inimitable harmonica arrangements,

Maestro Bormann?"

"I can't right now. I'm bandaging Helen's wing." He held out something

in the palm of his hand, and the heater's glow glittered on liquid

black eyes. "She's like a little bird, but without her feathers. See?"

He placed the warm lump in Hague's hand. "For wings, she's just got

skin, like a bat, except she's built like a bird."

"You ought to show this to Balistierri, and maybe he'll name this for

you too."

Bormann's homely face creased into a grin. "I did, sir. At the noon

halt when I found it. It's named after my girl. 'Bormann's Helen', only

in Latin. Helen's got a broken wing."

* * * * *

As they ate, they heard the horn note again. Bucci's black eyes were

feverishly bright, his skin hot and dry, and the vine scratches on his

leg badly inflamed; and when the rest began to sing he was quiet. The

reedy song of Bormann's harmonica piped down the quiet forest passages,

and echoed back from the great trees; and somewhere, as Hague dozed off

in his little tent, he heard the horn note again, sandwiched into mouth

organ melody.

Two days of slogging through the slimy green mud, and at a noon halt

Sewell brought back word to be careful, that a man had failed to report

at roll call that morning. The gun crew divided Bucci's equipment

between them, and he limped in the middle of the file on crutches

fashioned from ration cart wreckage. Crosse, who'd been glancing off

continually, like a wizened, curious rat, flung up his arm in a silent

signal to halt, and Hague moved in to investigate, the ever present

Brian moving carefully and with jungle beast's silent poise just behind

him. Crumpled like a sack of damp laundry, in the murk of two root

buttresses, lay Romano, one of the two photographers. His Hasselblad

camera lay beneath his body crushing a small plant he must have been

photographing.

From the back of Romano's neck protruded a gleaming nine-inch arrow

shaft, a lovely thing of gleaming bronze-like metal, delicately thin

of shaft and with fragile hammered bronze vanes. Brian moved up behind

Hague, bent over the body and cut the arrow free.

They examined the thing, and when Brian spoke Hague was surprised that

this time even the rock-steady Sergeant spoke in a hushed voice, the

kind boys use when they walk by a graveyard at night and don't wish to

attract unwelcome attention.

"Looks like it came from a blowgun, Lieutenant. See the plug at the

back. It must be poisoned; it's not big enough to kill him otherwise."

Hague grunted assent, and the two moved back trailward.

"Brian, take over. Crosse, come on. We'll report this to Clark.

Remember, from now on wear your body armor and go in pairs when you

leave the trail. Get Bucci's plates on to him."

Bormann and Hurd set down their loads, and were buckling the weakly

protesting Bucci into his chest and back plates, as Hague left them.

* * * * *

Commander Chapman stared at the circle of faces. His section commanders

lounged about his tiny square office. "Well, then, what are their

chances?"

Bjornson, executive for the technical section, stared at Chapman

levelly.

"I can vouch for Devlin. He's not precisely a rule-book officer, but

that's why I recommended him for this expedition. He's at his best in

an unusual situation, one where he has to depend on his own wits. He'll

bring them through."

Artilleryman Branch spoke in turn. "I don't know about Hague. He's

young, untried. Seemed a little unsure. He might grow panicky and

be useless. I sent him because there was no one else, unless I went

myself."

The Commander cleared his throat brusquely. "I know you wanted to go,

Branch, but we can't send out our executive officers. Not yet, anyway.

What about Clark? Could he take over Devlin's job?"

"Clark can handle it," Captain Rindell of the Science Section, was

saying. "He likes to follow the rule-book, but he's sturdy stuff. He'll

bring them through if something happens to Devlin."

"Hmmmm--that leaves Hague as the one questionable link in their chain

of command. Young man, untried. Of course, he's only the junior

officer. There's no use stewing over this; but I'll tell you frankly,

that if those men can't get their records through to us before we send

the next courier rocket to earth, I think the U.S. Rocket Service is

finished. This attempt will be chalked up as a failure. The project

will be abandoned entirely, and we'll be ordered back to Earth to serve

as a fighter arm there."

Bjornson peered from the space-port window and looked out over the

cinder-packed parade a hundred feet below. "What makes you so sure the

Rocket Service is in immediate danger of being scrapped?"

"The last courier rocket contained a confidential memo from Secretary

Dougherty. There is considerable war talk, and the other Service Arms

are plunging for larger armaments. They want their appropriations of

money and stock pile materials expanded at our expense. We've got to

show that we are doing a good job, show the Government a concrete

return in the form of adequate reports on the surface of Venus, and its

soils and raw materials."

"What about the 'copters!" Rindell inquired. "They brought in some good

stuff for the reports."

"Yes, but with a crew of only four men, they can't do enough."

Branch cut in dryly. "About all I can see is to look hopeful. The

Rocket would have exhausted its fuel long ago. It's been over ten weeks

since they left Base."

"Assuming they're marching overland, God forbid, they'll have only

sonar and radio, right?" Bjornson was saying. "Why not keep our klaxon

going? It's a pretty faint hope, but we'll have to try everything. My

section is keeping the listeners manned continually, we've got a sonar

beam out, radio messages every thirty minutes, and with the klaxon

we're doing all we can. I doubt if anything living could approach

within a twenty-five mile range without hearing that klaxon, or without

us hearing them with the listeners."

"All right." Commander Chapman stared hopelessly at a fresh batch

of reports burdening his desk. "Send out ground parties within the

ten mile limit, but remember we can't afford to lose men. When

the 'copters are back in, send them both West." West meant merely

in a direction west from Meridian 0, as the mother rocket's landing

place had been designated. "They can't do much searching over that

rainforest, but it's a try. They might pick up a radio message."

Chapman returned grumpily to his reports, and the others filed out.