Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  "Death?" Duval somehow managed a shrug. "Death, yes. But what a death of the most heroic!" And with supreme courtesy to the last, Duval carefully rolled over to face the wall, that a woman might not have to suffer the unpleasant sight of a dying man.

  Somberly, Strike helped Gerry to her feet, and she clung to him tightly. For a while they said no word. All about them throughout the ship came the noises of normal life being resumed. The entrance port clanged shut. Voices rang out. Distantly a generator began to hum. Bulkheads rumbled open again. Oxygen hissed into the airless passages. Feet drummed faintly.

  Then Gerry Carlyle gave Louis Duval his epitaph.

  "There lies," she said, "a very gallant gentleman."

  * * *

  Contents

  THE DUAL WORLD

  By Arthur K. Barnes

  The Lost Continent

  The space ship loomed like a mysterious monster in the hot, swirling mists. It lay quiescent on a vast, lonely stretch of hard-packed beach. Immediately westward, barely to be seen in the eternal fog, lay the sluggish gray wastes of the Mare Gigantum, greatest of all the Venusian seas. The Solar tide was creeping in, and steaming waves charged the shore like bulls with lowered heads.

  Two people crawled about the gleaming hull, equipped with magnetic shoes. Both wore antiseptic helmets, as they worked slowly forward from stem to bow. The foremost carried a heat-ray gun, with the beam diffused and spread wide. Every time he came to one of the many ugly yellowish blotches that dotted the hull, he rayed it out of existence, then moved on. Tommy Strike, co-captain of one of the mightiest ships in the System, was doing out of sheer ennui work fit for the lowliest motoroiler in the crew.

  "Granted," Strike grumbled to his long-suffering companion, "I don't know anything about handling a centrifugal flier like this. Just the same, Gerry made me co-captain, and it's my duty to learn. But every time I slip into the pilot-house she runs me out. Says I'm like a man in a kitchen, with a positive genius for getting in the way!"

  "Yes, sir." Sub-pilot Barrows carefully examined a spot cleared by the blast of Strike's weapon, looking for evidence of pitting. If he found any, a spray of liquid metal quickly remedied the damage. "Yes, sir, I believe the periodic wind has about subsided."

  "You'd think she'd at least let me head one of the hunting parties. I know a damn sight more about this planet than any of the others. But no, one of the captains must remain with the ship, and since Gerry Carlyle always leads the hunt! My orders are countermanded, and I sit around twiddling my thumbs. A guy don't mind being babied part of the time, but I want to marry a woman, not a flock of apron strings!"

  "Yes, sir. I guess we're about through, sir." Barrows was trying desperately to change the subject.

  "I tell you I'm ripe, Barrows, ripe for rebellion!" Strike waved his gun around in good-natured melodrama. But beneath his good humor there was a warning note of seriousness.

  "Yes, sir," said Barrows, still trying. "Amazing how versatile these bacterial colonies are, particularly in these latitudes."

  As he spoke, a culture sailed up on the dying wings of the breeze and smacked right across the name-plate of The Ark. It was a nasty, gummy mess. Strike rayed it viciously.

  "Not so amazing. Back on Earth bacteria multiply rapidly as sin. They have great adaptability; they have motility; they release acids and virulent toxins. Small wonder these giant bacteria have developed further in conditions like these," he sent his heat-beam hissing into the fog, "so they ride the periodic winds and destroy nearly everything they touch. Infection is terribly fast on Venus."

  As soon as the regular air raid of bacteria and fungus spores had ceased, the ship was quickly cleaned. The two figures scrambled awkwardly to the ground, made their way to an open port. It was like stepping into bedlam. The entire rear half of the ship, partitioned off into numerous holds for comfortable transportation of the strange life-forms that were the expedition's objectives, was in a terrific uproar.

  Squeals, yowls, hisses, roars-every conceivable variation of audible animal fury assaulted the ear-drums. For "Catch-'em-alive" Carlyle, as usual, had been extremely successful during her brief visit to the unknown northern latitudes of Venus.

  Almost hourly the hunting parties returned with magnificent specimens -- everything from the incredible Atlas crab to the sea squirrel, the little rodent with feet like sea-sleds, which ran about agilely over the surface of the ocean, and whose body contained so much oil that the stuff squeezed out of its eyes and splashed from its opened mouth.

  They even had one of the rare and famous bolas-birds, the only flying creature of any size native to Venus, with infra-red-sensitive eyes to pierce the mists. It carried three bony structures dangling from its body on tough strings of cartilage; these were used as a weapon much like the ancient Argentine bolas, to ensnare victims. The bolas-bird was its own worst enemy, frequently strangling itself in the excitement of a chase.

  Strike put away his helmet, grimaced at the clamor, and led the way along the main corridor to the chart-room in the bow of the ship. There he found Gerry Carlyle, poring over incomplete maps and faded notes. As always when coming into the presence of that amazing young woman, her matchless beauty caught him at his throat. He watched for a moment the familiar curves of her profile, the stubborn chin, the tousled mop of silken blond hair. Then she sensed his presence and turned.

  "Hi, Tommy."

  'Hi, Gerry." They grinned at each other. They didn't often have moments alone, with all barriers down. "About ready to pull out o' here? We've got a nifty cargo this time."

  "Yes. Splendid haul." Gerry thoughtfully took a small tablet from a packet on the table, put it in her mouth to suck.

  "Good Lord!" Tommy said in disgust. "Just because you endorsed those things is no sign you have to use 'em, too! Why --"

  "The Energine people gave me a fat check for that endorsement; I believe in loyalty to an employer. Besides, they're not so bad. 'Be Buoyant -- Eat Energines!"' She laughed. "As I was going to say, though, our hunting is about finished here, and I'll be ready to leave after we make a try at finding the Lost Continent."

  Strike's eyes gleamed. The Lost Continent of Venus, a myth, a legend, a romantic fabrication of fictioneers based on a scrap of map, a half dozen lines in a log-book. Sidney Murray, greatest of the early interplanetary explorers, had hastily sketched in a few cryptic lines on his Venusian map, indicating a continent or large island in Mare Gigantum; six sentences in the log told of passing hurriedly over this uncharted region as they left the planet. From that day henceforward no Earthman apparently had ever set eyes on this mysterious land and returned to tell of it.

  "You know," mused Gerry, "it's funny no one but Murray ever saw this elusive continent or island. Others have tried to find it, too. In fact, some have searched for it and never returned. Odd --"

  Strike was reminded of his grievance.

  "Well, we'll know more about that when and if we locate the place. No use speculating about it. But look, Gerry. I've been thinking --"

  "Hear, hear!"

  "That despite the fact we've had a successful trip, there's still lots of room left in the holds. So I was wondering --"

  "Well?"

  "Well, I'm more or less extra baggage around here, and I thought nobody'd mind if I roped in a few specimens of my own. I could pick up a pretty fair piece of change for 'em back on Earth. Enough maybe to buy a marriage license and post the bond." That was during the brief political tenure of the Domestic Tranquility party-referred to as the D. T.'s by the opposition press -- one of whose platform planks was the posting of a bond by every prospective husband and bride, to be forfeited upon failure of either party to do his or her utmost to build a happy home.

  Gerry looked dubious.

  "There's a standard price for most of this extra-planetary stuff, you know, and it's plenty high. Not many places can afford it. Besides, there aren't a half dozen zoos on Earth equipped to maintain Venusian life. You weren't figuring on under-selling me a
nd the other hunters to the regular buyers, were you?"

  "Lord, no, Gerry! As a matter of fact, I'd thought of selling them to the motion picture people. Nine Planets Pictures -- " Strike's voice trailed off into nothingness. Gerry's smooth white jaw had suddenly become firm, and anger sparkled in her eyes like salt on candle flames.

  "That outfit of phonies?" she cried. "Never I. That's something I absolutely forbid, Tommy! The movies! Why, that whole business is a rank fake! Papier mache sets, sound dubbed in after the picture is filmed, half-scale tin space ships for their interplanetary sequences. But what gets me is what they do when they want a Jovian or a Venusian monster for one of their cheap melodramas.

  "You know what they do? Their overpaid biochemists get busy and manufacture a creation with no more life or soul than a robot. Press a button and he swipes the heroine; press another and he eats the villain. And Nine Planets Pictures has the colossal nerve to foist these things off on the public as the genuine article! It's false, Tommy! It's not right! They're fakers!"

  "But what magnificent fakers," murmured Strike, softly so Gerry wouldn't hear. Barrows had come and was hovering anxiously about, trying to avert a quarrel, exuding peace and good-fellowship all over the chartroom,

  But Gerry's tongue was in a favorite groove, her feud that was becoming the delight of the System. She always took as a personal insult any fancied slight upon her profession or the strange lifeforms with which it dealt.

  "The main reason I'm even bothering to look for this doubtful Lost Continent is because Nine Planets is making a picture called 'Lost Continent.' A week before we took off from London, that baboon Von Zorn came pussyfooting around my business manager. Wanted to know if I intended to bring back any specimens from the Lost Continent.

  "He knew it'd make him look silly. So he made me an offer. 'My dear Miss Carlyle'." Gerry was an excellent mimic. "'If you could-er-see your way clear to-um-represent Nine Planets Pictures on your forthcoming expedition-ah-it would be worth a good deal to us. Something spectacular, you know? To-uh-place in the lobby of Froman's Mercurian Theatre the night of the premiere.' He made that proposition knowing very well I'd have to break my contract with the London Interplanetary Zoo to agree. You can imagine what I said to him."

  "Yes. I can imagine." Strike began to look uncomfortable.

  Barrows fluttered.

  "So if we find anything interesting, we'll arrange to make Von Zorn squirm when he releases his picture. Oh, no, Tommy. No specimens for the movies. That's out!"

  Tommy Strike could usually take Gerry's domineering attitude for what it was -- a hard-talking sort of bluff that she put on to command the respect and complete loyalty of her crew. But sometimes her act was a bit too realistic. This time he had to choke back a hot retort. He smiled equably.

  "So the captain hates the films."

  "Exactly. Besides, all the boys are busy on routine stuff, Tommy."

  "I might pick up a few commercial specimens myself," he argued mildly. "I'm not exactly a stranger here, you know. I can get around."

  Gerry groaned. "Oh, Tommy. Do not you understand anything about discipline? How many times have you read those signs? Don't they mean something to you?"

  Strike didn't bother to look up, he knew those signs by heart.

  "If the rules governing conduct in this ship seem severe, remember they are the composite of years' experience, calculated best to serve the interests of economy and personal safety."

  Gerry had a weakness for polysyllabics. Above the annunciator was another one.

  We are in a dangerous trade. Failure to cooperate fully jeopardizes the lives of your companions and courts disaster.

  Similar Carlyleisms were placed in strategic spots all over the ship, in the control rooms, crew's quarters, and even the washrooms, sentiments designed to inculcate strict obedience and complete submergence of all personalities to that of Gerry Carlyle. Strike had always felt that while they were essential to insure smooth work and a minimum of accidents with a party strange to the planet, they were never meant to apply to Tommy Strike, who knew Venus as only a veteran Venusian trader can know it.

  But now Gerry turned the full battery of her eyes on him. And for a moment all the efficiency and businesslike hardness fell away from her like a poorly fitting cloak, and she was all soft and tender and desirable.

  "Tommy," she whispered. "Don't you see these rules are for my sake, too? What would happen to me if you went off alone and didn't come back?"

  Strike felt his resistance draining away as if a spigot had been turned inside him. "Okay, Gerry," he said. "You win."

  But in Strike's cabin was a contract signed by Von Zorn, offering generous rates for anything Strike brought in from the Lost Continent. Gerry or no Gerry, there was big money to be made, money that would remove from Strike the stigma of fortune-hunter when he married the woman.

  He looked calculatingly at Barrows.

  He had always considered the sub-pilot a weak vessel, but he couldn't hope to entice any of the others away from Gerry. He decided on a surprise attack.

  "Well?" whirling on Barows. "Are you with me or against me?"

  Barrows choked. "I beg your pardon, sir, I don't quite --"

  "You know damn well what I mean. I'm taking a shot at finding the Lost Continent before Gerry does. If I find it, we're in the money."

  Barrows hesitated, but three minutes' vigorous argument persuaded him. Glancing furtively down the metal corridor, he muttered, "Quite against the rules, sir. But if the captain is ordering me --"

  "Right! It's an order, then. Pick up the necessary equipment and set a beam. I'll have a plane on the beach in a jiffy."

  Barrows had a momentary twinge of conscience.

  "What will Miss Carlyle say when she learns you've disobeyed her?"

  A beatific expression spread like thin oil over Strike's face.

  "Don't worry, Barrows; she'll realize that her remarks were hasty. She'll forgive me," he declared with the unbelievably confident ego of a young man just fallen in love, "because she loves me."

  Chapter VI.

  The Arkette

  The tremendous power plant of a centrifugal flier was impracticable for use in any vehicle so small as an airplane; rocket fuels were wasteful and expensive. So the Carlyle party always carried two small ethyl-driven planes for scouting on planets where the atmosphere would support them. It was one of these that Strike trundled out onto the smooth-packed beach from the rear of The Ark.

  It resembled the conventional small all-metal transport in all respects save three. First, it had retractable pontoons as well as retractable landing gear so it was at home on land or sea.

  Secondly, it had a seventy-two inch gyradoscope which developed a static pressure of thirty pounds per horsepower, as compared to maximum propeller efficiency of six static pounds per horsepower.

  This, besides saving fuel, gave the plane a top speed approaching 1,000 miles per hour. And thirdly, a battery of electronic telescopes reproduced on the visual control screen, regardless of the atmosphere's thickness, a miniature shell of visibility, bisected by the horizon and including the sky above and the terrain below the pilot, and everything on either side, for many miles.

  Strike had hardly checked gas and instruments when Barrows ran out. There wasn't much equipment: two rifles with a box of hypodermic bullets, anti-gravity outfit, tiny acousticon receivers for each man to slip into one ear so as to keep on the radio beam, a cathode-gun for emergencies, Strike's heat-beam pistol, and portable telescope.

  As Barrows started to step inside, the tail of the plane created a diversion by slowly sliding about in a half circle on the beach. The sub-pilot missed his footing and collapsed in a tangle of equipment.

  "Another of those blasted Atlas crabs," Strike swore. "They aren't happy unless they're crawling under something heavy and lifting it."

  He sizzled a heat-ray under the tail assembly, and a violet crab scuttled out. It was about the size of a pie plate, weighing perhaps
two pounds. Barrows glared.

  'How the devil that mauve menace can handle a ton of duralumin is something I'll never know! Begging your pardon, sir."

  Strike helped him up, shoved him in with the equipment.

  "Not so strange if you remember the Hercules beetle back on Earth. That baby weighs about an ounce, yet can carry five and a half pounds! Figuring the proportionate increase in size, the Atlas crab's accomplishments aren't so miraculous."

  Barrows' reply was unintelligible. Presently his head popped into view.

  "All shipshape, sir. Shall we take off . Oh. look. What sort of a plague is this?"

  Strike turned to see a horde of tiny creatures scurrying from out of the fog-hidden forest. They were fuzzy gray things, about the size of terrestrial rabbits; the resemblance was heightened by the way they hopped, and by the presence of a tuft of white tail. But head and shoulders they looked more like naked monkeys, with wrinkled faces like little old men. Strike grunted.

  "Never seen them before? We call 'em duncerabbits. They're migratory. Terrific pests."

  The duncerabbits were consumed with friendly curiosity and were already swarming all over the beach; some of the bolder ones were even bouncing right into The Ark.

  "Duncerabbits?" Barrows inquired.

  "Yeah. Their life-span is about a year, at the end of which they all go crazy."

  Barrows looked as if he thought he was being kidded, but was too polite to say so. Strike continued.

  "Fact. The microbes of some sort of meningitis-like brain disease are carried about with 'em. Very virulent, and always fatal as soon as it gets to work. The whole race of duncerabbits is wiped out once a year. It's funny in a way -- they have fits and go through all sorts of contortions like a circus clown."

  "Um. Then how is it the race maintains itself?"

  "Oh, they're monotremes. The females lay their eggs shortly before the periodical madness sets in. The young live on the contents of the eggs until large enough to forage for themselves. Orphans, every one!" Strike looked thoughtful a moment, then scooped up three of the little beggars and tossed them into the plane. He followed, "All set?"