The rush and whisper of the waves made the only sound. Most of the trees were liana-like, eking out a precarious existence, as the saying went, by taking in each other’s washing. The moment one of them showed signs of solidity, it was immediately assailed by parasitic vines flinging themselves madly upward to reach the filtered sunlight of Venus. The leaves did not begin for thirty feet above the ground; they made a regular roof up there, lying like crazy shingles, and would have shut out all light had they not been of light translucent green. Whitish tendrils crawled like reaching serpents from tree to tree, tentacles of vegetable octopi. There were two types of Venusian fauna: the giants who could crash through the forest, and the supple, small ground-dwellers—insects and reptiles mostly—who depended on poison sacs for self-protection. Neither kind was pleasant company.
There were flying creatures, too, but these lived in the upper strata, among the leaves. And there were ambiguous horrors that lived in the deep mud and the stagnant pools under the forest, but no one knew much about these.
“Well,” Scott said, “that’s that.”
Kane nodded. “I guess I should have checked the motors.”
“You wouldn’t have found anything. Latent flaws—it would have taken black night to bring ’em out. Just one of those things. Keep your gas mask handy, now. If we get anywhere near poison flowers and the wind’s blowing this way, we’re apt to keel over like that.” Scott opened a waterproof wallet and took out a strip of sensitized litmus, which he clipped to his wrist. “If this turns blue, that means gas, even if we don’t smell it.”
“Yes, sir. What now?”
“We-el—the boat’s gone. We can’t telaudio for help.” Scott fingered the blade of his smatchet and slipped it into the belt sheath. “We head for the fort. Eight miles. Two hours, if we can stick to the beach and if we don’t run into trouble. More than that if Signal Rock’s ahead of us, because we’ll have to detour inland in that case.” He drew out a collapsible single-lenser telescope and looked southwest along the shore. “Uh-huh. We detour.”
A breath of sickening sweetness gusted down from the jungle roof. From above, Scott knew, the forest looked surprisingly lovely. It always reminded him of an antique candlewick spread he had once bought Jeana—immense rainbow flowers scattered over a background of pale green. Even among the flora competition was keen; the plants vied in producing colors and scents that would attract the winged carriers of pollen.
There would always be frontiers, Scott thought. But they might remain unconquered for a long time, here on Venus. The Keeps were enough for the undersea folk; they were self-sustaining. And the Free Companions had no need to carve out empires on the continents. They were fighters, not agrarians. Land hunger was no longer a part of the race. It might come again, but not in the time of the Keeps.
The jungles of Venus held secrets he would never know. Men can conquer lands from the air, but they cannot hold them by that method. It would take a long, slow period of encroachment, during which the forest and all it represented would be driven back, step by painful step—and that belonged to a day to come, a time Scott would not know. The savage world would be tamed. But not now—not yet.
At the moment it was untamed and very dangerous. Scott stripped off his tunic and wrung water from it. His clothing would not dry in this saturated air, despite the winds. His trousers clung to him stickily, clammy coldness in their folds.
“Ready, Kane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s go.”
They went southwest, along the beach, at a steady, easy lope that devoured miles. Speed and alertness were necessary in equal proportion. From time to time Scott scanned the sea with his telescope, hoping to sight a vessel. He saw nothing. The ships would be in harbor, readying for the battle; and planes would be grounded for installation of the new telaudio device Cinc Rhys had mentioned.
Signal Rock loomed ahead, an outthrust crag with eroded, unscalable sides towering two hundred feet and more. The black strip of sand ended there. From the rock there was a straight drop into deep water, cut up by a turmoil of currents. It was impossible to take the sea detour; there was nothing else for it but to swerve inland, a dangerous but inevitable course. Scott postponed the plunge as long as possible, till the scarp of Signal Rock, jet black with leprous silvery patches on its surface, barred the way. With a quizzical look at Kane he turned sharply to his right and headed for the jungle.
“Half a mile of forest equals a hundred miles of beach hiking,” he remarked.
“That bad, sir? I’ve never tackled it.”
“Nobody does, unless they have to. Keep your eyes open and your gun ready. Don’t wade through water, even when you can see bottom. There are some little devils that are pretty nearly transparent—vampire fish. If a few of those fasten on you, you’ll need a transfusion in less than a minute. I wish the volcanoes would kick up a racket. The beasties generally lie low when that happens.”
Under a tree Scott stopped, seeking a straight, long limb. It took a while to find a suitable one, in that tangle of coiling lianas, but finally he succeeded, using his smatchet blade to hack himself a light five-foot pole. Kane at his heels, he moved on into the gathering gloom.
“We may be stalked,” he told the boy. “Don’t forget to guard the rear.”
The sand had given place to sticky whitish mud that plastered the men to their calves before a few moments had passed. A patina of slickness seemed to overlay the ground. The grass was colored so much like the mud itself that it was practically invisible, except by its added slipperiness. Scott slowly advanced keeping close to the wall of rock on his left where the tangle was not so thick. Nevertheless he had to use the smatchet more than once to cut a passage through vines.
He stopped, raising his hand, and the squelch of Kane’s feet in the mud paused. Silently Scott pointed. Ahead of them in the cliff base, was the mouth of a burrow.
The captain bent down, found a small stone, and threw it toward the den. He waited, one hand lightly on his gun, ready to see something flash out of that burrow and race toward them. In the utter silence a new sound made itself heard—tiny goblin drums, erratic and resonant in a faraway fashion. Water, dropping from leaf to leaf, in the soaked jungle ceiling above them. Tinky tink, tink-tink, fink, tink-tink—
“O.K.,” Scott said quietly. “Watch it, though.” He went on, gun drawn, till they were level with the mouth of the burrow. “Turn, Kane. Keep your eye on it till I tell you to stop.” He gripped the boy’s arm and guided him, holstering his own weapon. The pole, till now held between biceps and body, slipped into his hand. He used it to probe the slick surface of the mud ahead. Sinkhole and quicksands were frequent, and so were traps, camouflaged pits built by mud-wolves—which, of course, were not wolves, and belonged to no known genus. On Venus, the fauna had more subdivisions than on old Earth, and lines of demarcation were more subtle.
“All right now.”
Kane, sighing with relief, turned his face forward again. “What was it?”
“You never know what may come out of those holes,” Scott told him. “They come fast, and they’re usually poisonous. So you can’t take chances with the critters. Slow down here. I don’t like the looks of that patch ahead.”
Clearings were unusual in the forest. There was one here, twenty feet wide, slightly saucer-shaped. Scott gingerly extended the pole and probed. A faint ripple shook the white mud, and almost before it had appeared the captain had unholstered his pistol and was blasting shot after shot at the movement.
“Shoot, Kane!” he snapped. “Quick! Shoot at it!”
Kane obeyed, though he had to guess at his target. Mud geysered up, suddenly crimson-stained. Scott, still firing, gripped the boy’s arm and ran him back at a breakneck pace.
The echoes died. Once more the distant elfin drums whispered through the green gloom.
“We got it,” Scott said, after a pause.
“We did?” the other asked blankly. “What—”
“Mud-wolf, I think. The only way to kill those things is to get ’em before they get out of the mud. They’re fast and they die hard. However—” He warily went forward. There was nothing to see. The mud had collapsed into a deeper saucer, but the holes blasted by the high-x bullets had filled in. Here and there were traces of thready crimson.
“Never a dull moment,” Scott remarked. His crooked grin eased the tension. Kane chuckled and followed the captain’s example in replacing his half-used clip with a full one.
The narrow spine of Signal Rock extended inland for a quarter mile before it became scalable. They reached that point finally, helping each other climb, and finding themselves, at the summit, still well below the leafy ceiling of the trees. The black surface of the rock was painfully hot, stinging their palms as they climbed, and even striking through their shoe soles.
“Halfway point, captain?”
“Yeah. But don’t let that cheer you. It doesn’t get any better till we hit the beach again. We’ll probably need some fever shots when we reach the fort, just in case. Oh-oh. Mask, Kane, quick.” Scott lifted his arm. On his wrist the band of litmus had turned blue.
With trained accuracy they donned the respirators. Scott felt a faint stinging on his exposed skin, but that wasn’t serious. Still, it would be painful later. He beckoned to Kane, slid down the face of the rock, used the pole to test the mud below, and jumped lightly. He dropped in the sticky whiteness and rolled over hastily, plastering himself from head to foot. Kane did the same. Mud wouldn’t neutralize the poison flowers’ gas, but it would absorb most of it before it reached the skin.
Scott headed toward the beach, a grotesque figure. Mud dripped on the eye plate, and he scrubbed it away with a handful of white grass. He used the pole constantly to test the footing ahead.
Nevertheless the mud betrayed him. The pole broke through suddenly, and as Scott automatically threw his weight back, the ground fell away under his feet. He had time for a crazy feeling of relief that this was quicksand, not a mud-wolf’s den, and then the clinging, treacherous stuff had sucked him down knee-deep. He fell back, keeping his grip on the pole and swinging the other end in an arc toward Kane.
The boy seized it in both hands and threw himself flat. His foot hooked over an exposed root. Scott, craning his neck at a painfully awkward angle and trying to see through the mud-smeared vision plates, kept a rattrap grip on his end of the pole, hoping its slickness would not slip through his fingers.
He was drawn down farther, and then Kane’s anchorage began to help. The boy tried to pull the pole toward him, hand over hand. Scott shook his head. He was a good deal stronger than Kane, and the latter would need all his strength to keep a tight grip on the pole.
Something stirred in the shadows behind Kane. Scott instinctively let go with one hand, and, with the other, got out his gun. It had a sealed mechanism, so the mud hadn’t harmed the firing, and the muzzle had a one-way trap. He fired at the movement behind Kane, heard a muffled tumult, and waited till it had died. The boy, after a startled look behind him, had not stirred.
After that, rescue was comparatively easy. Scott simply climbed along the pole, spreading his weight over the surface of the quicksand. The really tough part was pulling his legs free of that deadly grip. Scott had to rest for five minutes after that.
But he got out. That was the important thing.
Kane pointed inquiringly into the bushes where the creature had been shot, but Scott shook his head. The nature of the beast wasn’t a question worth deciding, as long as it was apparently hors de combat. Readjusting his mask, Scott turned toward the beach, circling the quicksand, and Kane kept at his heels.
Their luck had changed. They reached the shore with no further difficulty and collapsed on the black sand to rest. Presently Scott used a litmus, saw that the gas had dissipated, and removed his mask. He took a deep breath.
“Thanks, Kane,” he said. “You can take a dip now if you want to wash off that mud. But stay close inshore. No, don’t strip. There’s no time.”
The mud clung like glue and the black sand scratched like pumice. Still, Scott felt a good deal cleaner after a few minutes in the surf, while Kane stayed on guard. Slightly refreshed, they resumed the march.
An hour later a convoy plane, testing, sighted them, telaudioed the fort, and a flitterboat came racing out to pick them up. What Scott appreciated most of all was the stiff shot of uisqueplus the pilot gave him.
Yeah. It was a dog’s life, all right!
He passed the flask to Kane.
Presently the fort loomed ahead, guarding Doone Harbor.
Large as the landlocked bay was, it could scarcely accommodate the fleet. Scott watched the activity visible with an approving eye. The flitterboat rounded the sea wall, built for protection against tidal waves, and shot toward a jetty. Its almost inaudible motor died; the shell swung back.
Scott got out, beckoning to an orderly.
“Yes, sir?”
“See that this soldier gets what he needs. We’ve been in the jungle.”
The man didn’t whistle sympathetically, but his mouth pursed. He saluted and helped Kane climb out of the flitterboat. As Scott hurried along the quay, he could hear an outburst of friendly profanity from the men on the dock, gathering around Kane.
He nodded imperceptibly. The boy would make a good Free Companion—always granted that he could stand the gaff under fire. That was the acid test. Discipline was tightened then to the snapping point. If it snapped—well, the human factor always remained a variable, in spite of all the psychologists could do.
He went directly to his quarters, switching on the telaudio to call Cinc Rhys. The cinc’s seamed, leathery face resolved itself on the screen.
“Captain Scott reporting for duty, sir.”
Rhys looked at him sharply. “What happened?”
“Flitterboat crack-up. Had to make it in here on foot.”
The cinc called on his God in a mild voice. “Glad you made it. Any accident?”
“No, sir. The pilot’s unharmed, too. I’m ready to take over, after I’ve cleaned up.”
“Better take a rejuvenation—you probably need it. Everything’s going like clockwork. You did a good job with Mendez—a better bargain than I’d hoped for. I’ve been talking with him on the telaudio, integrating our forces. We’ll go into that later, though. Clean up and then make general inspection.”
“Check, sir.”
Rhys clicked off. Scott turned to face his orderly.
“Hello, Briggs. Help me off with these duds. You’ll probably have to cut ’em off.”
“Glad to see you back, sir. I don’t think it’ll be necessary to cut—” Blunt fingers flew deftly over zippers and clasps. “You were in the jungle?”
Scott grinned wryly. “Do I look as if I’d been gliding?”
“Not all the way, sir—no.”
Briggs was like an old bulldog—one of those men who proved the truth of the saying: “Old soldiers never die; they only fade away.” Briggs could have been pensioned off ten years ago, but he hadn’t wanted that. There was always a place for old soldiers in the Free Companies, even those who were unskilled. Some became technicians; others, military instructors; the rest, orderlies. The forts were their homes. Had they retired to one of the Keeps, they would have died for lack of interests.
Briggs, now—he had never risen above the ranks, and knew nothing of military strategy, ordnance, or anything except plain fighting. But he had been a Dooneman for forty years, twenty-five of them on active service. He was sixty-odd now, his squat figure slightly stooped like an elderly bear, his ugly face masked with scar tissue.
“All right. Start the shower, will you?”
Briggs stumped off, and Scott, stripped of his filthy, sodden garments, followed. He luxuriated under the stinging spray, first hot soapy water, then alcomix, and after that plain water, first hot, then cold. That was the last task he had to do himself. Briggs took over, as Scott relaxed on the slab, dropp
ing lotion into the captain’s burning eyes, giving him a deft but murderous rubdown, combining osteopathic and chiropractic treatment, adjusting revitalizing lamps, and measuring a hypo shot to nullify fatigue toxins. When the orderly was finished, Scott was ready to resume his duties with a clear brain and a refreshed body.
Briggs appeared with fresh clothing. “I’ll have the old uniform cleaned, sir. No use throwing it away.”
“You can’t clean that,” Scott remarked, slipping into a singlet. “Not after I rolled in mud. But suit yourself. I won’t be needing it for long.”
The orderly’s fingers, buttoning Scott’s tunic, stopped briefly and then resumed their motion. “Is that so, sir?”
“Yeah. I’m taking out discharge papers.”
“Another Company, sir?”
“Don’t get on your high horse,” Scott told the orderly. “It’s not that. What would you do if it were? Court-martial me yourself and shoot me at sunrise?”
“No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, I’d just think you were crazy.”
“Why I stand you only the Lord knows,” Scott remarked. “You’re too damn independent. There’s no room for new ideas in that plastic skull of yours. You’re the quintessence of dogmatism.”
Briggs nodded. “Probably, sir. When a man’s lived by one set of rules for as long as I have, and those rules work out, I suppose he might get dogmatic.”
“Forty years for you—about twelve for me.”
“You came up fast, captain. You’ll be cinc here yet.”
“That’s what you think.”
“You’re next in line after Cinc Rhys.”
“But I’ll be out of the Doones,” Scott pointed out. “Keep that under your belt, Briggs.”
The orderly grunted. “Can’t see it, sir. If you don’t join another Company, where’ll you go?”
“Ever heard of the Keeps?”
Briggs permitted himself a respectful snort. “Sure. They’re fine for a binge, but—”
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