THE THING OF VENUS
By Wilbur Peacock
On far-off steaming Venus, three
Earthlings faced awful death. And
the only man who could save them
from the veiled planet's unknown
THING was Kenton—disgraced,
dope-sodden ex-Space Patrolman.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The gailang gas hung in low soft waves over the motley crowd of thetiny, hidden gailang den. Laughter rose hysterically from the trio ofwomen slummers, as the gas tore their natural reserves and modestyinto shreds. A scarred space-pirate drooled over a handful of Martianmoon-diamonds, the disruptor gun handy to his gnarled fist. Thegas-tender, his flat nose buried in a tiny mask, watched the crowd ofinscrutable eyes, his hands flickering, now and then, over the pet-cockstudded panel before him.
Val Kenton lolled back in his padded booth, his eyes glazed with thedrugging gas, his right hand fumbling aimlessly at the pipe restingon the battered table. His face was slack and whiskered, but even twomonths of lying drugged could not take the firmness from his mouth orthe squareness from his jaw.
He didn't see the two men wearing the blue uniforms of the S.P. comein, nor did he feel their heavy hands as they lifted him between them.He was smiling slightly in his sleep, his subconscious completelyconcerned with a Martian dancing flower, when the two men tossed himinto the rear seat of a cruiser and sent it speeding toward the grimforbidding walls of the S.P.'s prison.
Val Kenton came to with the acrid bite of neutralizing gas twisting hisstomach in violent nausea. He retched, turned on his side, reachingautomatically for the gas-pipe. His hand encountered nothing, and heopened dazed eyes, stared uncomprehendingly around.
"Leave me alone!" he snarled, "I paid your bloody money for a privatebooth!"
A heavy palm smashed across his face, brought him, raging, to his feet.He lashed out with both hands, felt a grip of steel on his shoulderwhirl him and throw him back to the laced-steel bunk.
"Sober up, Kenton," a hard voice snapped, "I haven't got time to waste."
Val Kenton came slowly to a sitting position, rubbed his achingforehead with his hand, finally forced his bleary eyes to focus on theuniformed man standing so grimly before him.
The man was blocky, his grizzled hair a stiff shock above a craggyface. He wore the uniform of an S.P. colonel, with the triple barsthat only a charter member of the Space Patrol could wear. His eyeswere unfriendly as he stared at the unshaven, younger man before him,but deep in their gray depths was a terrified panic that he could notcompletely conceal.
"Snap out of it, Kenton," he barked.
Val Kenton swayed drunkenly to his feet, saluted insolently.
"Captain Val Kenton, of the Cruiser Pegasus, reporting for duty, sir,"he said blurrily, mockingly, "Day's orders, sir?"
He stared about the cell, hate growing in his eyes, the jut of his chinbecoming even more stubborn. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and helit it with a glow-lighter, as his gaze grew speculative.
"Well?" he prompted nastily.
"Look, Val," the colonel sat on the bunk edge. "I need your help."
Val Kenton laughed, and there was a deep hate and bitterness in thetones that brought the blood rushing to the patrolman's features.
"You go to hell, you damned, snobbish, slave-driver," Val Kentons