Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
_Venus was the most miserable planet in the system, peopled by
miserable excuses for human beings. And somewhere among this
conglomeration of boiling protoplasm there was a being unlike the
others, a being who walked and talked like the others but who was
different--and afraid the difference would be discovered. You'll
remember this short story._
foundling
on
venus
_by ... John & Dorothy de Courcy_
The foundling could not have been more than three years old. Yet he
held a secret that was destined to bring joy to many unhappy people.
Unlike Gaul, the north continent of Venus is divided into _four_ parts.
No Caesar has set foot here either, nor shall one--for the dank,
stinging, caustic air swallows up the lives of men and only Venus may
say, _I conquered_.
This is colonized Venus, where one may walk without the threat of sudden
death--except from other men--the most bitterly fought for, the dearest,
bloodiest, most worthless land in the solar system.
Separated by men into East and West at the center of the Twilight Zone,
the division across the continent is the irregular, jagged line of Mud
River, springing from the Great Serpent Range.
The African Republic holds one quarter which the Negroes exploit as best
they can, encumbered by filter masks and protective clothing.
The Asians still actually try to colonize their quarter, while the
Venusian primitives neither help nor hinder the bitter game of
power-politics, secret murder, and misery--most of all, misery.
The men from Mars understand this better, for their quarter is a penal
colony. Sleepy-eyed, phlegmatic Martians, self-condemned for minute
violations of their incredible and complex mores--without guards save
themselves--will return to the subterranean cities, complex
philosophies, and cool, dry air of Mars when they have declared their
own sentences to be at an end.
Meanwhile, they labor to extract the wealth of Venus without the
bitterness and hate, without the savagery and fear of their neighbors.
Hence, they are regarded by all with the greatest suspicion.
The Federated States, after their fashion, plunder the land and send
screaming ships to North America laden with booty and with men grown
suddenly rich--and with men who will never care for riches or anything
else again. These are the fortunate dead. The rest are received into the
sloppy breast of Venus where even a tombstone or marker is swallowed in
a few, short weeks. And they die quickly on Venus, and often.
From the arbitrary point where the four territories met, New Reno flung
its sprawling, dirty carcass over the muddy soil and roared and hooted
endlessly, laughed with the rough boisterousness of miners and spacemen,
rang with the brittle, brassy laughter of women following a trade older
than New Reno. It clanged and shouted and bellowed so loudly that quiet
sobbing was never heard.
But a strange sound hung in the air, the crying of a child. A tiny
child, a boy, he sat begrimed by mud at the edge of the street where an
occasional ground car flung fresh contamination on his small form until
he became almost indistinguishable from the muddy street. His whimpering
changed to prolonged wailing sobs. He didn't turn to look at any of the
giant passers-by nor did they even notice him.
But finally one passer-by stopped. She was young and probably from the
Federated States. She was not painted nor was she well-dressed. She had
nothing to distinguish her, except that she stopped.
"Oh, my!" she breathed, bending over the tiny form. "You poor thing.
Where's your mama?"
The little figure rubbed its face, looked at her blankly and heaved a
long, shuddering sigh.
"I can't leave you sitting here in the mud!" She pulled out a
handkerchief and tried to wipe away some of the mud and then helped him
up. His clothes were rags, his feet bare. She took him by the hand and
as they walked along she talked to him. But he seemed not to hear.
Soon they reached the dirty, plastic front of the Elite Cafe. Once
through the double portals, she pulled the respirator from her face. The
air inside was dirty and smelly but it was breathable. People were
eating noisily, boisterously, with all the lusty, unclean young life
that was Venus. They clamored, banged and threw things for no reason
other than to throw them.
She guided the little one past the tables filled with people and into
the kitchen. The door closed with a bang, shutting out much of the noise
from the big room. Gingerly she sat him down on a stool, and with
detergent and water she began removing the mud. His eyes were horribly
red-rimmed.
"It's a wonder you didn't die out there," she murmured. "Poor little
thing!"
"Hey! Are you going to work or aren't you, Jane?" a voice boomed.
A large ruddy man in white had entered the kitchen and he stood frowning
at the girl. Women weren't rare on Venus, and she was only a waitress ...
"What in the blue blazes is that!" He pointed to the child.
"He was outside," the girl explained, "sitting in the street. He didn't
have a respirator."
The ruddy man scowled at the boy speculatively. "His lungs all right?"
"He isn't coughing much," she replied.
"But what are you going to do with him?" the man asked Jane.
"I don't know," she said. "Something. Tell the Patrol about him, I
guess."
The beefy man hesitated. "It's been a long time since I've seen a kid
this young on Venus. They always ship 'em home. Could have been dumped.
Maybe his parents left him on purpose."
The girl flinched.
He grunted disgustedly, his face mirroring his thoughts. _Stringy hair
... plain face ... and soft as Venus slime clear through!_ He shrugged.
"Anyway, he's got to eat." He looked at the small figure. "Want to eat,
kid? Would you like a glass of milk?" He opened a refrigerator, took out
a plastic bottle and poured milk in a glass.
Chubby hands reached out for the glass.
"There, that's better," the cook said. "Pete will see that you get fed
all right." He turned to the girl. "Could he belong to someone around
here?"