The Collected Stories

by Earl

  SIX Hundred Thirty-First Day. Continuing my recapitulation of the events on Venus, the natives remained friendly, bringing us gifts of food. They are little more than kindly savages. Yet they can become aroused, as we once saw. They will probably be an obstacle to future colonization. Atwell cites the fact that the highly advanced Martians lost out in colonizing Venus, if our translations of the pyramid records are accurate.

  Incidentally, we shunned the pyramid, after the three men were nearly buried alive. It is like a symbol of the remote past, an epitaph of the Martian race.

  Parletti one day speculated glowingly of an expedition to Mercury, a pyramid might be there, finishing the great drama of interplanetary history, long before Man could write or think rationally. Then the glow died, in his eyes. He suddenly remembered that we were marooned on Venus, with very little chance of surviving another fourteen horrible months.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Second Day. Yes, that chance grew slimmer. Three months had passed and we almost had hopes of lasting it out. Suddenly adversity, as though it had been waiting, stalked us.

  First of all, a fuel tank burst. Markers pointed out that the seams had become weakened by the damnable, searching moisture. We retrieved as much as we could—with spoons! Again we took up the grind of carting the spilled fuel back and forth to the pyramid, to dry it. How many more tankfuls would we have trouble with? They were all but useless, weakened and thinned by the slow, deadly corrosion.

  Second, during the next night of twenty-eight days, we nearly starved! Mold somehow got at half our dried meats, stored up during the day-period. We had two weeks of blinding black, flood-drenched night to last out.

  Captain Atwell finally went out in the pitch darkness, with a little flashlight and gun. He returned ten hours later—when we had given up hope for him—with three blubbery carcasses over his shoulder. Fortunately the molds are inactive during the night-period.

  But during the day-period, the frightful death-mold preyed. Swinerton, pulling at an innocent hangnail and drawing blood, suddenly found the edges discolored. Quick-thinking, he dumped his solution of silver nitrate over the finger, remembering his tests with the molds. He was saved—by the thin Earthly dime he had dissolved!

  We all searched our pockets then for silver coins. Tarnay found a quarter, Markers a dime. That was all. It was mere chance that we had those. We hadn’t thought to bring along money from Earth to a planet where it was useless. It was ironic to reflect, then, that a few dollars’ worth of silver might have meant salvation.

  Swinerton made up the silver solution. Captain Atwell laid down the wise rule that from then on no one must go out alone. Always two together, and never more than two, whether it was for hunting or drying fuel or any other important task. And the two out always carried half the silver solution in a vial.

  Tarnay came back from hunting one day with a scratch that Parletti, his companion, had swabbed with the nitrate. The very next hour, in the ship, Markers bruised his knee. That was the end of the silver solution.

  It almost seemed as though an invisible fiend—an ally of the death-mold—stood always behind us, shoving us against bruising objects. Perhaps, in our extreme caution to avoid injury, we were so tensed and fearful that we made it worse. We wondered how the natives of Venus could stand life under such constant threat.

  Who would be the next victim? Worse—who would be the last? Those were the frenzied thoughts that dominated our minds.

  Right now—with all that a nightmare of the past—we are raptly listening to your musical program. Music in space sounds indescribably sweet, especially when you haven’t heard any for months.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Third Day. We went on robotlike, working, sleeping, eating. Actually, though, we were waiting—waiting for death.

  Then one day, just six weeks ago, Karsen let out a yell. He had been writing formulae on his latest “blackboard,” a section of metal wall. We turned our heads away sadly.

  It was a madman’s yell. But then he spoke in a frantic babble. I’ll never forget his words. None of us will.

  “Look! I have it! We can leave Venus right away! We don’t have to wait for the next conjunction—for the death-mold to get us!”

  His finger pointed trembling to a series of equations scrawled across five feet of wall space.

  Patiently, soothingly, we pointed out to Karsen that Earth was half around the sun from Venus, almost at the farthest aphelion. It would be sheer madness to leave now, of all times. We explained that gently, but the madness grew in his frantic eyes.

  “That’s just it,” he snapped, waving the stump of his wrist. “We’ll swing in a course around the sun, like a comet. That way, we’ll come up in back of Earth. The increased velocity past the sun will be canceled by Earth’s orbital velocity. We’ll be chasing Earth.”

  He looked around at our humoring, patient faces.

  “I tell you I’ve figured it out!” he cried anxiously. “Dangerous to try, of course. But what chance have we staying here on Venus? We’ll have enough fuel—I figured that too—to make a landing on Earth.”

  And then we knew that Karsen wasn’t mad. He had shown us the way to escape Venus, world of sure death.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Fourth Day. We prepared as adequately as we could for a journey of unknown duration. Our empty oxygen tanks were filled with Venusian air pumped in by the compressor. The water tanks held fresh rain. Our pantry was loaded with gifts of meat and edible plants from the natives, suitably wrapped in the preserving herbs.

  The natives, incidentally, seemed genuinely sorry we were leaving. A great crowd of them pressed around, holding a sort of ceremony. The chief waved solemn farewell.

  But we noticed that one faction seemed hostile. They must fear that, like their legend of the Martian visitors, we would return leading a conquering horde. I sincerely hope it will not be so.

  The moment of departure was heartstopping.

  The engine idled smoothly. But when Tarnay revved it higher, it began to splutter!

  Were some of the engine parts hopelessly weakened by corrosion? Was the fuel contaminated with moisture again? Was Venus to claim our lives after all? These lightning forebodings ran sickeningly through our minds.

  It was over in a few seconds—merely the engine warming up. Soon it sang out powerfully. Our next worry was to clear the natives out of the way. Thinking we would rise straight up, they milled on all sides. Tarnay skilfully frightened them back with bursts from the side steering rockets. Then, the way clear, he swung over the power-throttle.

  We had another bad moment when the cloying mud underneath the skids slowed our normal pick-up. We headed seaward, over the cliff. Passing it with not quite enough speed, the ship dipped for the water. Tarnay gave it the gun, with the rear deflectors dragging the tail down. It was all he could do. Well, we made it, by a scant margin of inches. One wave crashing against our nose—that would have been the end of our frightful battle.

  We tore through miles of mist-filled atmosphere, as if it would never end. I’ll never forget the moment when Markers yelled, “Look, a star!”

  It was the first star we had seen in six months, buried as we were beneath Venus’ blinding cloud-packs. Soon more appeared, as we lurched out of the Venusian stratosphere.

  And then the sun burst forth in a blaze of glory!

  I can’t describe how we felt. We were free of Venus, free of its filthy, degrading terrors. We were heading—home!

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Fifth Day.

  Our initial elation quickly died. A long, strange journey lay ahead of us. We were heading home—but by way of the sun, four times as far as any space flight yet achieved!

  None of us could check on Karsen’s figures. Only he had delved that deeply in advanced celestial mechanics. We had to take his word for it that by swinging into a parabolic orbit around the sun, we would reach Earth. Karsen himself, though, now seemed dubious, once we had started. He sat at the writing desk for the first three days, hardly eating or sleeping, check
ing his equations over and over.

  “It should work,” we heard him mutter at times. “It has to work!”

  That was scarcely encouraging. Nevertheless, we prepared for our long voyage with a grim determination.

  Captain Atwell sagaciously rid the ship of all Venus molds. This we did simply by shuttering out the sun and turning off the heating unit. The ship’s cabin grew bitingly cold. Atwell had us bundle ourselves in heavy clothing. A full day we waited, in a temperature near zero. We enjoyed it. We wallowed in it. For six months, on Venus, we had not known a temperature below a hundred. It was sheer ecstasy to freeze for a change.

  Swinerton examined his samples of molds, taken in forethought. They were all dead. The molds of Venus, never knowing cold, die instantly at a drop of temperature. We warmed the cabin up, then, confident that none of the devilish molds lurked around us, awaiting their chance.

  Next, at Karsen’s suggestion, a temporary refrigeration unit was rigged up. Tarnay and Markers took fuel tank pipes, ran them across the cabin, and opened them out through the hull safety-valve. A slow trickle of water ran through them, evaporating into greedy space. Thus the pipes would be cooled, by the well known and simple principle of gases expanding.

  Last, we carefully allowed ourselves to tan, by bathing stripped in direct sunlight a few minutes each day. We were white as ghosts, from our long stay on Venus. Its atmosphere filters all ultra-violet rays.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Sixth Day.

  In the following two weeks, the sun grew steadily larger and hotter. Tarnay, under Karsen’s orders, daily corrected our course with off-side rocket blasts. Markers made hourly calculations with the space octant. Karsen grew thin and feverish, plotting the angle of approach to the sun.

  We all realized, without saying, that the slightest error would either send us hurtling into the sun, or out into trans-earth space, drifting without fuel.

  The cabin temperature rose steadily, even with the refrigerating unit going full blast. Luckily, because of our stay on hell-hot Venus, we were more or less inured to heat. But the mercury-thread kept climbing, climbing—

  We passed the orbit of Mercury. Still we drove inward toward the sun, at a tangent. Now our suffering really began. Sweating, panting, breathing air that burned our lungs like molten metal, we thought longingly of Venus! Its sweaty hundred-and-five, by contrast, was like a blessedly cool climate.

  Karsen sat at his desk, still scribbling. Sweat poured over his calculations, but he barked for octant readings from Markers. His eyes glowed. He was pitting man’s intelligence and daring against the brute forces of the Universe.

  We finally reached a position only twenty-nine million miles from the sun. The closest man has ever been! But we felt no elation over that thought. We only knew that our very skin seemed on fire. The metal walls of the cabin smoked, burning hot to our touch. We expected the fuel to explode any moment.

  Markers’ octant readings now became vitally significant. Were we swinging properly around the sun? Karsen’s eyes were two feverish holes as he checked. He let out a hoarse croak finally, and nodded. We answered with as much of a cheer as we could. We could now feel the ship swinging!

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Seventh Day.

  The following is hard to tell. But there was nearly a mutiny!

  After a week of swinging around the sun, slowly but steadily toward Earth’s side, Karsen suddenly announced that we would have to use the rockets and maneuver just a little closer to the sun.

  Our nerves, already frying, seemed to crack in unison. We glared and cursed at Karsen. One of us—it doesn’t matter who—shouted that Karsen was insane. We were all mad for ever trying this impossible flight! Karsen was heading us straight into the sun!

  Karsen tried to make a reply, but the speaker lunged at him, cursing, fist upraised. In the crackling tenseness of the moment, he meant to kill Karsen. We were all half mad.

  “Tear him apart!” we yelled.

  The blow never fell. Captain Atwell’s fist cracked sharply against the man’s chin. He slumped to the floor. Atwell alone had kept his head. We owe our lives to him—again.

  He faced the rest of us quietly, firmly, pistol in hand. Had one of us moved, he would calmly have shot. But we turned away, muttering, already half-ashamed of ourselves.

  Tarnay used the rockets, as Karsen instructed. We swung two million miles closer to the sun—closer to hell!

  For ten days, while the sun grasped our ship and whipped it around like a stone on a string, we had to bear that ovenlike temperature.

  I won’t say more about it. We grew thin, weak, listless, drained of energy. Food was unbearable, water almost boiling. When we tried to talk, our tongues stuck in our mouths. We hugged the refrigeration pipes. Refrigeration? They were close to body temperature. But at least they were cooler than the hot blasts of air circling the cabin.

  Let me tell now of Karsen.

  Lon Karsen is only a slim boy of twenty-six, the smallest and least sturdy of us all. After the loss of his hand, he never really recovered his strength. Some superhuman source of power kept him going through all that frightful, soul-draining period. Markers grew too stupefied to do so more than fumble at the space octant with sweaty, slippery fingers. So Karsen took the readings, hour after hour, turning the finder-screws with the stump of his wrist.

  He watched our course, guided us through, his boyish lips set indomitably. The “baby” of our expedition, he has more than proven himself a man—man’s man.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Eighth Day.

  We began to notice it one day. The blistering heat dropped a few degrees. Rapidly, then, it grew cooler. We were past the sun, continuing toward Earth on a parabolic orbit. Our bleary eyes saw a vision.

  Earth, a huge bright star, hung before the nose of the ship. We had succeeded!

  That was five weeks ago. The story is up to date now.

  In the past five weeks, we’ve recovered somewhat from our trying experience. We are still gaunt, haggard, but we know that soon we’ll be taken care of—on Earth!

  Thinking back, it almost seems incredible. We drove from Venus toward the sun, twice the distance of the Mars trip at opposition. We swung in a grand arc around the sun, closer than any planet, perhaps closer than any beings, unless the ancient Martians tried it. Then there was the long pull out to Earth.

  We didn’t use rocket power. The sun, as it does with comets, whipped us around and hurtled us with increased velocity toward Earth. Our real problem will be to halt, with our limited fuel supplies. But, as Karsen planned, we are crawling up on Earth from its back, chasing it in its orbit. That cuts eighteen miles a second from our speed, relative to Earth.

  We will have to make a landing on the moon, however, as on the Mars return. We have not enough rocket power to fight Earth’s surface gravity.

  Earth shows a slight disk today. The moon is a first magnitude star swinging toward us. Soon it will pass its perihelion point and draw away. This too will cut our relative velocity, saving fuel. Karsen figured that all out when he set the departure and course.

  We’re definitely worried about young Karsen now; Though he bore up miraculously through the worst of it, he is now showing the strain. He is feverish. Parletti is doctoring him as best he can. Karsen is our key man. The landing maneuvers are going to take more advanced plotting.

  SIX Hundred Thirty-Ninth Day. Parletti announced the bad news to us today, calling us aside to whisper it to us. Karsen is sinking fast. He is drained of all energy. His poor fevered body is tossing in his bunk.

  Captain Atwell has been very thoughtful over it. It is not just our need of Karsen’s mathematical mind for the landing. We all like Karsen. We want him to live!

  I think it was Swinerton who first mentioned a blood transfusion. The idea struck us forcefully. Parletti thought it over a minute, shaking his head doubtfully.

  “We’re all so weak,” he said. “Karsen would need a pint of blood. A pint from any one of us might—”

  We knew
what he meant. A life for a life! Captain Atwell made the decision quickly.

  “Karsen must live,” he stated. “The landing has fifty per cent better chance with him directing course. Therefore, if the donor dies, his life is offered for all, not just Karsen.”

  Nobody could deny that logic. More though, we wanted to make up for that ugly moment of insane anger against Karsen, who had brought us through.

  Swinerton, as biologist, reminded us that first we had to find the right type of blood. We bared our arms and he took samples, examining them under the microscope. Then he made the test on Karsen.

  “Type Two-A,” he announced.

  “I had my blood tested once before,” Tarnay said. “I think it was type Two-A. So I’ll—”

  Swinerton shook his head. “There is only one person here with Two-A blood.” His voice went on calmly. “Myself.”

  It took courage to announce that. We all knew it. Had he been that kind, Swinerton could have pinned it on some one else. He could have taken advantage of Tarnay’s faulty memory, and saved himself. Even with Karsen killed by the wrong blood, there would still have been the gambling chance of a safe landing. Yes, it took courage for Swinerton to put the finger of possible death on himself.

  Crudely but effectively, Parletti hand-pumped the blood across, through sterilized rubber tubing. Hopefully, we watched the effect on Karsen. He fell into a violent chill, as sometimes happens. We packed him with warm blankets.

  Swinerton fell into a sleep immediately. He is sleeping now. He didn’t seem to be in any particular danger, Parletti says, though, in his condition, a pint of blood is not a light thing to give up.

  Well, we all feel calmer now. This new crisis, so close to Earth, is apparently solved. Tarnay is going over the rocket engine thoroughly for its final duties. Earth is now moon-size to us, a compelling sight.

  SIX Hundred Fortieth Day.

  If we get back at all, Earth, there will only be six of us. Swinerton is dead!

  He never woke up from the sleep that came over him yesterday after the transfusion. Now, since it will explain so much, I can reveal the name of the man who almost struck Karsen.