Arnim sprang to the instrument. Unerringly his fingers sought and found the switch and thrust it home. Out of the blackness a voice sounded, a precise, clipped English voice, yet strained and urgent, shot through with pain and exhaustion.
“Penger, Arnim Penger, are you there? Penger, Penger, help, Penger!”
Arnim snatched up the transmitter.
“Chris, Chris. I’m listening. It’s Arnim Penger. What’s the matter? Quick, man! What’s happened to you?”
The far-off, disembodied voice seemed to be dying out.
“Arnim. Thank God—you answered at last. It’s hours. Help—help he-e-lp!” It died out to a whisper, then, abruptly, it was gone.
“Chris, what’s the matter? What happened?” The trader was shouting into the transmitter, but only the rattle of the raindrops, and a crash of thunder, answered.
The lights came on. Haldane was standing just behind him, white-faced. Penger gazed at him, unseeing, his eyes steely flames, his great fists clenched.
“Britt,” he snapped, “Take over!” He went out in the anteroom, struggled into a fresh suit of corduroys, pulled on his banta waterproof.
As his face appeared out of the black folds it was set, grim.
“If you don’t hear from me by the time the relief ship gets here, have ’em send a force over to Bell’s post. No trading. Heaven knows what the Venusians are up to.” He was strapping on the high mud-shoes.
Britt came out of his daze in a tumbling rush. He fairly stuttered in his eagerness.
“I say, you can’t do that—I mean you can’t go alone. I’ll go with you—otherwise—good Lord, you know what I mean.” He fell into a sudden silence, but his eyes pleaded for him.
Penger shot one glance at him.
“You’ll do,” he said laconically. “Hop into your clothes.”
Haldane blushed with pleasure at the veteran’s endorsement even as he dived hastily into his clothing, Arnim stood in the doorway, waiting impatiently. The younger man snapped the elastic of his respirator-mask over his head, settled his hood down over the goggled eyepieces.
“I’m ready, air.” The mouthpiece of the mask muffled his tones strangely.
They were outside, in a world gone mad. From black clouds that seemed not fifty feet over their heads, forked lightning shot incessantly, shot and stabbed at them as if the elements themselves had risen in wrath to oust these beings from an alien world. To the continuous roll of thunder was added the crash of the nearly solid sheets of water that beat down upon the Earthmen, strangling them despite their masks, striving to drive them into the viscid mud that oozed fluid beneath their wide-spreading mud-shoes.
In the flickering blue light beyond the Curtain, the tall ferns were flattened down over the tangle of writhing vines and lush wire-grass till the thicket seemed a solid mass, compressed by the weight of tons of water, lashed by a wind of hurricane force.
Haldane gasped, and paled. Even Penger, veteran though he was, hesitated for an instant; It was the height of insanity to dare the long journey in this chaos. No one could live through it. But then he remembered that call, coming eerily out of the darkness.
“Help, Penger, help!”
Chris Bell was in trouble, needed him! Chris, who had fought at his side on Jupiter, a score of years ago. He hunched his shoulders, thrust his massive head before him, and bored into the wind that was a solid wall. He’d get to Chris despite all!
Britt was lifted from his feet by the wind, thrown against the heavier form of his companion. Arnim shouted something. The lad could see his lips moving, but could hear nothing above the tornado’s roar. A dripping arm gestured to the door of the little building they had just quitted. Penger wanted him to go back, thought this storm would lick him. It was dry there, dry and safe.
It would be so easy to let the wind blow him back. In all this time they had struggled only fifteen feet. After all, this was his post, the station he would be in charge of as soon as the relief ship picked Penger up. No one could blame him for staying behind—for obeying orders:
But—he was a “Venus, Inc.” man, one of the stalwart company that was conquering the far planets for Earth. And another “Venus, Inc.” man had called for help, off there in the storm-lashed jungle. He shook his head, thrust away the hand that was pushing him back.
Again Pengler’s hand sought his shoulder, but only to squeeze it in token of approval. They slogged into the storm again.
At last they were through the Curtain. Arnim turned, took something from the voluminous pocket of his waterproof. A tiny radio-transmitter, low-powered, sending only a long dash that varied completely in wave length for a half minute. The key to the Curtain—Penger pressed the button. A coruscation of tiny flashes snapped through the wind-tossed filaments. The power was on—that apparently frail barrier hummed now with the Grendon vibration.
Britt could see the driven rain rebound from the invisible wall. Nothing, no human body, no Venusian dart, not even a high-powered electro-bullet could pass through the net. The station was safe, protected against all intrusion until the machines that produced the vibration were stilled by another pressure on the little instrument with its secret combination of frequencies.
Into the jungle they went crawling now, through chance-found gaps in the matted chaos of the cyclone-pounded vegetation. The black quagmire sucked at their feet, clinging lianas twisted around them, clung tenaciously. Thorns ripped at them. A bolt of lightning struck, not a score of feet away, and sent a towering twisted fern into flaring destruction.
The Venusians, fish—scaled and web-footed though they were—dared not prowl abroad. The very beasts—strange amphibious creatures of a steamy, primitive world—cowered in their lairs or dug themselves deep beneath the sheltering mud of the jungle tarns.
But the Earthlings pressed forward, deafened, gasping, half-drowned, wholly exhausted. A yard, a foot, an inch at a time. Crawling, scrambling, twisting, dragging themselves through the terrific storm to answer a comrade’s cry for help. Slogging into the hurricane for hour after hour of interminable, inhuman struggle.
Two mud-covered figures reeled out from the edge of the jungle, dazed, bewildered, dizzy with exhaustion. Just ahead hung the filaments of Bell’s Curtain, intact. They were through! Through the jungle and the storm the daring adventurers had reached their goal. How long it had taken them, by what devious route they had come, they never knew.
Sometime during that endless journey the electrical storm had ended, but they had never noticed it, so stunned had they been with the turmoil of the elements. Behind them the drenched and cowering jungle was straightening. The drab cloud ceiling was shot through with light. The rain had diminished to a tenuous drizzle. Fine weather—on Venus.
Ahead, within the circling Curtain, was a sea of mud. A torpedo-shaped, two-man flier glistened in the filtering light, half-hidden behind a squat, rough hut, whose door hung open. What lay behind that door?
CHAPTER II
Through the Curtain
Penger, his banta waterproof hanging in shreds, moved forward wearily. As he came into the open, a hiss ripped the stillness, a red streak flashed past his hooded and masked head. The trader whirled, threw himself headlong to the ground.
“Down! Down, quick!” he shouted to the startled Britt. The youth dropped. “What the—”
“Shut up.” Arnim’s whisper was urgent. “Lie still.”
The lad twisted his head. His companion’s projector was in his outstretched hand, his keen eyes were darting from point to point of the thicket. Fatigue seemed forgotten. Where his waterproof had been torn away by some thorn, the cords of his neck stretched tensely.
“What’s up?” he breathed.
“See that, out in the mud.”
A tiny dart, scarlet-feathered, lay there—a Venusian poison dart. A little shiver thrilled the youth. He had seen a huge three-horned ratlos, ten feet high at the shoulder, brought down to instant death by one of those, sent with unerring skill from the blow-pip
e of a native hunter.
“Came near finishing me. They’re—wah!”
The angry spat of Penger’s weapon interrupted. An acrid smell of burned flesh stung Haldane’s nostrils. “Got him!”
“Where? Who?”
“To the right. See, behind that S-shaped liana.”
The lad stared. At first he could see nothing, then a tiny patch of silver appeared, just beyond the arm-thick vine Arnim had indicated. The youth started to rise, but Penger’s steely clutch stopped him.
“Down, you fool! There may be others. Stay here, till I call. And don’t move, if you want to see Earth again.”
The motionless youngster watched Penger slide through the mud—so slowly that Britt looked twice to make sure he had moved at all. He disappeared beneath a dumb of brown fungi, umbrella-shaped. His black hood appeared above the toadstools, his shoulders glistening black with the dampness. Haldane clenched his fists, nervously. What an awful chance he was taking. Suppose there were other unseen hunters watching for just this chance?
“All right, lad, come along.” Penger’s call seemed to come from the ground, off to one side! Then—who was standing there? Was it Bell? The novice rose, ran forward, crouching, to where the other had suddenly appeared, without his banta cloak.
As Haldane reached his companion, the mystery of the seeming newcomer was solved. Penger was pulling his waterproof from a withered fern-frond that was supporting it. He smiled grimly at the white-faced youth’s ejaculation.
“Thought I was asking for a dart, did you? Just slipped this coat off, stuck it up and squirmed away. If there had been more of the natives around I’d have known it darn quick—maybe got a chance to take another clip at one. Let’s see what this bird I brought down looks like.”
Britt shuddered as he stared down at the prostrate savage. In spite of the low-browed, primitive face, noseless and with gills where the ears ought to be, in spite of the naked savage’s fish-scaled skin and webbed feet, the youth could not help but feel him human.
Only a few hours ago others of his kind, perhaps this very individual, had been chaffering with him at the trading post. And now he lay there, unmoving, a great gaping hole in, his chest, black-charred at the edges. Those electro-bullets did terrible execution when their high-powered radite charge was released on impact.
“Come on, Britt. He’s dead to stay. Let’s get in to Chris.”
Penger had his little combination set in his hand, had pressed the switch button. The hum of the generator from the hut in the center of the compound ceased. The two dived through the dangling filaments, and Arnim flashed on the protecting vibration again—just in time.
At the jungle edge another Venusian had appeared, panting. His dart whirred from the hollow reed he raised to his mouth, fell back impotently from the Curtain.
“Nothing wrong there,” gasped Britt.
They had clumped wearily through the viscid mud, were at the hut’s entrance.
“Chris!” Arnim called, “Chris! We’re here!” Then there was a choking gasp. “Darn them, oh darn them!” It was a sob, and a prayer for vengeance.
There, on the wet, green-slimed floor, lay Chris Bell. His still thin form was contorted in agony. The sharp features were clammy white, the little black mustache blacker yet by contrast. The transmitter of his teletalker was clutched tight in his right hand, the sleeve ripped away, showed a livid red burn on the white arm.
His right foot was bare, the trouser cut away. The leg was swollen to twice, three times its natural size up to where, buried in the blackened flesh, a twisted leather thong cut in—horribly. On the floor a red-feathered dart, its tip bloodstained, told its mute story.
“Chris, old man, wake up. We’re here. Chris! He isn’t dead. He can’t be gone!” Penger’s hand was within Bell’s shirt. A faint flutter, almost imperceptible, beat against the probing finger tips.
“Whiskey! Britt—there must be some around. Find it quick!”
Haldane shot a quick glance around the little room. On a shelf he saw a familiarly shaped container, the purple B. P. C. seal unbroken. He twisted off the sealing cap. Penger had the bottle-neck between Bell’s teeth. A little rivulet dribbled out at the corners of Chris’ mouth, then he swallowed, convulsively. The eyelids flickered. A grimace of pain distorted his face. A groan, then his eyes opened.
“Arnim!” His voice was a shadow. The words were being forced out by sheer will power. “Never mind me—done for. Papers in flier—must be filed—at once. Letter too—explains. Go!”
“Chris, old boy, what happened to you? How did they get you?”
The dying man motioned to the bottle. Penger administered another dose of the stimulant. A little color came into Bell’s cheeks.
“Why don’t we do something for him, Mr. Penger?” burst from Britt.
“Nothing we can do,” was Penger’s hopeless response. “Once that dart-poison gets into you it’s only a question of time before you kick off. Only thing that’s kept him alive so far is the thong he’s tied around his leg. But the poison’s seeping back in spite of it—can’t you see how black his skin is above the tied part? Soon it will reach his heart.”
Chris was talking again, his voice a little stronger, with the false strength lent it by the whiskey. He was answering Arnim’s last question.
“Came through the Curtain.”
“Through the Curtain! How in Hades—”
“Yes. Through the Curtain. It was charged, I’m sure of that.” Bell’s voice was blurred with agony, low, but very clear. An inner strength seemed to be supporting him, to be warding off the hovering death.
“It was charged, but just as I was going over to the Wanderer to take off, there was a whine from the jungle, a whine that rose and fell, and a shower of darts. Most struck against the Curtain, and fell, but some got through, and one clipped me, hung in my leg.” A glance of astonishment passed between Penger and Haldane, but they did not interrupt the wounded man’s laboring narrative.
“I dragged myself in here, strapped the leg. Knew it was no use, but I had to get a message through to you. I called and called, while that whine rose and fell, rose and fell out there somewhere, and the savages showed themselves around the Curtain and blew their darts through it. I watched them through the open door while I called you, and waited, dizzy, for the answer that never came.
“Just a little round spot, I noticed, in the Curtain where the darts came through. I kept shouting for you, till I passed out. Then I came to again, and called again. And that infernal whine still came from the jungle, and the fish-faced natives were dancing. And still you didn’t answer.
“Then everything went black again. Don’t know whether I dreamed or not, but it seemed I came to, and the noise from the jungle was louder, and through a haze I thought I saw a Venusian creep up to the Curtain, and start through. Coming through the Curtain, though I could hear my generator going full force! Then, when his body was halfway through he seemed to shrivel up and drop, with an awful look of agony on his face.
“Again I passed out. Thunder, thunder and lightning roused me. Thank God, the whining sound had stopped. A last dart hit the very spot the others had come through, but fell back. I called again hopelessly. I heard your answer. Then—blackness again…”
The last word trailed off into nothingness. The white eyelids drooped, but came open again. Bell struggled into a sitting position.
“Don’t, don’t let them beat us, Arnim. They—never licked us yet. Do you hear me—old man—it’s getting—dark. Where—where are you?”
“Right here, Chris, right here beside you. What is it you want me to do?”
“The Wanderer—the papers are there—and a letter—for you. Oh—oh—the pain,” his hand clutched at his heart, his eyes stared unseeingly before him. “Arnim—Britt—get that claim filed. Go! As you love old Earth—leave me and go!”
He fell back.
“Good-bye,” he whispered. Then he quivered, and lay still.
“Good-bye, p
al.” There was the suspicion of a sob in Penger’s voice. Then he turned to the white-faced, shaken Haldane. The veteran’s face was grim, his eyes like chilled steel.
“If you ever make half the man he was…” He choked, left the sentence unfinished, strode across to the still open door, and stood there, staring out.
Britt bent to the motionless body, straightened it, threw over it a blanket from the neatly made bunk. A thick silence reigned in the room, broken only by the eternal swish, of the rain.
“Britt—come here!” Penger’s voice cut startlingly through the quiet. Haldane leaped to the doorway. “Look!”
A red, metallic sphere was rising from the jungle, a scant quarter-mile away, and disappearing in the haze.
“That’s Rutnom’s station ship, or I’m a dog-faced Jovian!”
“Rutnom! That’s the Mitco super on Venus, isn’t it. What’s he doing over here in ‘Venus, Inc.’ territory?”
“That’s what I want to know. I’ve run up against him before, on Jupiter. A sneaking, dirty fighter. I’m going out there.”
“But—the Venusians.”
“Darn the Venusians. I want to know if he was at the bottom of this deviltry, why the Curtain failed. God help him if what I suspect is true!”
“Then I’m going with you!”
“You stay here!”
“Mr. Penger, I would never forgive myself if you got into trouble out there and I wasn’t able to help. Please…”
“Oh well, if you will be a fool. Listen—when we’re through the Curtain, let me go ahead. Follow about fifty feet behind. Keep in what shelter you can, and protect my rear.
“For the love of Mike, don’t fall asleep, and don’t take your finger off the button on your projector. If they get me, try to get back. Understand!” Haldane nodded.
Once outside the protecting network; he crouched in the shelter of a gnarled root, and marveled at the dexterity with which the veteran moved through the thicket, darting from cover to cover like a gliding shadow. When his time to proceed came Britt strove to imitate his leader, but by comparison with the other’s silent passage he seemed to be crashing recklessly through the tangled underbrush.
The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction Megapack Page 17
