by Anthology
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?"
Barrows looked uneasily at the guests, but Strike reassured him.
"Don't worry. They can't affect us. I brought 'em because sometimes they're useful. Like homing pigeons; keep 'em in one place a few hours and they'll come right back to it!"
A touch of the starter and the plane's powerful engine burst into muffled thunder. No need for much warm-up in those temperatures, so almost at once Barrows guided the plane down the illimitable beach which unrolled like an endless ribbon from an invisible spool always just out of vision's range. Presently it dropped away, narrowed as it rushed more and more swiftly beneath them, then veered magically away and was replaced by leaden waves. Straight northwest over the Mare Gigantum the stubby Arkette headed, seeking the Lost Continent of Venus.
The three little strangers squalled plaintively in fright. The first one covered his ears at the unfamiliar engine-roar; the second took one look out at the vanishing beach and put his paws over his eyes in panic; the third clapped one paw over his mouth in a ludicrous expression of astonishment. It was too much, even for Strike's surly mood.
"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil!" yelled Tommy Strike hilariously, and both crew members bellowed with laughter.
Strike always said afterward that the finding of the so-called Lost Continent was anti-climax, they accomplished it so easily. In fact, it gave him an uneasy qualm or two, almost as if the place deliberately revealed itself to them, enticing them down to some subtle snare.
Barrows was still at the controls after an hour's steady flying, when Strike noticed the curious behavior of some of the instruments.
"That's odd. Must be some sort of radiation nearby. This should mean land."
He was right; it did mean land. Directly ahead, just coming into focus on the visual screen. Barrows throttled down, confused by his erratic instruments, and circled about cautiously. Almost at once he spotted a large level clearing. A rift in the fog allowed him to set the Arkette down easily. And almost at once
there came a terrific thunderclap, the sizzling crackle of a bolt of electricity. There was the hiss of molten metal, the smell of ozone.
Barrows and Strike exchanged a startled glance. Ionized air had transmitted to them a partial shock, but both were insulated somewhat by their rubberized Venusian costumes and the rubber floor mat. Strike peered out cautiously.
By the nose of the plane was a curious plant growth, the sole living thing in the entire clearing. It had three parts: there were two upright stems of tough, leathery stuff, one rising on each side of the plane; in between was a large, flat cup oozing a sticky substance from its walls. As Strike watched, the two stems moved slowly about as if seeking a more vulnerable spot. Again the dazzling bolt crashed from one stem to the other, apparently straight through the motor.
"By Jupiter!" Strike exclaimed. "It's an electric plant! The two stems act as poles. It generates juice galvanically, like an electric eel, and shoots its bolt from one pole to the other! Anything it hits naturally drops into the nasty looking cup to be digested forthwith!"
"Yes, sir."
Strike gingerly opened one window.
"Get a load of that smell!" It was a heavy musklike odor-spiced with mint. "Lures things with the smell, probably has a network of sensitive rootlets to register the approach of a victim, then gives 'em the hot seat! Good name for this jigger would be the Circe plant, eh?"
"Very apt name, sir."
"Though you'd think, the plant being grounded, that its charge would all leak away. Must have some way of sealing off its cells before generating the electricity."
"Yes, sir."
Strike turned scowling.
"Damn it, Barrows! Don't sit there yessing me dizzy! Contribute something to the conversation or else shut up!"
"Very well, sir. I suggest we take steps to eliminate the plant before it eliminates us. If it's not too late." Barrows' voice was bitter.
"What d'you mean 'too late'?"
"Just that every electrical instrument on the dash is ruined."
Tommy Strike wasn't the man to bother much about disaster until it actually struck. "So what?" he wanted to know. "Our acousticons are all right. We can just follow the beam back to the ship. We know there're no obstacles sticking out of the sea on our course, to crack up on."
He drew his heat-ray gun and leaned out, careful not to touch any of the metal of the plane, and beamed the electric plant into smoking, twisted extinction. The two clambered out and looked around.
"No wonder this clearing is so large and barren," commented Strike. "Nothing will grow anywhere near a devilish plant like that."
Barrow's conscience, and worry over their situation, had made him nervous. He was anxious to get the business over with. He disappeared into the plane again, reappearing loaded down with equipment. He handed Strike a rifle and hypo cartridges, and the cathode-gun to stick into his waist-band. About his waist he strapped the anti-gravity outfit, and carried by hand the portable electronic Iscope.
"Shall I start the radio, sir? We'll need a beam to travel on."
"Nope." Strike became more genial as action grew imminent. "We'll take a compass just as good as that." He pointed to See-No-Evil, Hear-No-Evil, and Speak-No-Evil, scampering about the plane. "They'll bring us back safe. We used them often at the trading post when they were handy,"
Barrows began to sweat. All his years of training with Gerry Carlyle had drilled deep into his soul the need for every precaution, rigid discipline, strict routine. This casual young man who wandered off into the Venusian mists with nothing but three potentially insane duncerabbits to bring him back was too much.
"But suppose something should happen to them, sir. What, then?"
"Well, we're still on the beam from The Ark. That'll bring us back to the general neighborhood of the plane."
"Yes, air, but it's so simple just to start the automatic radio beam. It would ease my mind."
"If you must know, Barrows, someone thoughtfully removed the tubes from the radio before we left. I have my suspicions about that. But in any case, it's a total loss now. So let's get going. I certainly don't want to get caught out here at night."
"Very good, sir."
They moved off through the thickly sluggish fog, with all its weird smells and sly noises, in the peculiar sliding gait of the experienced Venusian traveler that keeps the feet from driving very hard into the spongy earth. At the edge of the clearing a lizard scuttled past them into the scant undergrowth. It was an ordinary Venusian lizard in most respects, except that there were two of him, joined together like Siamese twins. Strike stared.
"Say! Did you see that? A freak. Might be worth taking back as a curiosity." He poked the rifle barrel into a clump of bushes. Instantly a whole horde of the scaly things rushed out in all directions. The whole lot of them were twins, joined! The dumfounded Strike forgot to catch any.
"Well, I'm damned. A race of twin lizards! We must have a few of those, Barrows. Keep an eye out for another batch!"
They pushed on, making careful observations through the portable 'scope. When they ran across a baby shovelmouth feeding, it was not one, but two of them, identical in appearance and markings. The land-crabs all moved in pairs, frequently joined shell to shell by a chitinous bridge. Even the occasional trees and shrubs grew two by two.
Strike soon saw the light.
"It's a dual world!" he breathed in awe. "Everything here is born twins!"
"I've been thinking about that, sir," the sub-pilot answered thoughtfully. "Remember how funny the instruments acted before we landed? A radiation of some kind, you thought. Why not one that affects the egg-cell, causing it to divide, or affecting the genes to cause the division, to produce twins?"
"You've guessed it. Earthly scientists have done it in the labs. Why shouldn't it occur in nature? In fact —"
Strike stopped, eyes narrowed at a pair of slim, rubbery trees a few feet away. Normally they stood about fifteen feet high. But —"
The young space explorer hesitated for a moment.
"As we've stood here talking, Barrows, one of those trees wrapped about the top of the other and pulled its mate back. Like a slingshot."
He detected a stealthy movement in the skimpy foliage, and suddenly grabbed Barrows' arm. and dragged him back out of danger. There was a creaking, a sharp rustle, and a vicious whip-crack as the rubbery trunk lashed out at them like a catapult. The two men were out of harm's way, but the duncerabbit Hear-No-Evil was struck squarely across the back. Nearly every bone in his little body was broken, and he collapsed like an empty sack on the ground'.
The sling-shot tree moved very deliberately toward its victim, turning like a sunflower, touched the shattered creature delicately like a cat sniffing garbage, then slowly withdrew.
"That was wanton!" Strike said slowly. "Cruel. I don't expect mercy on Venus, but I never yet saw killing up here that wasn't for sake of survival, food or self-defense. This Lost Continent is a nasty place."
But unpleasant place or not, Strike was there to capture a real prize — confound that self-sufficient fiance of his — and make himself some money. So he detoured around the sling-shot tree and thrust forward into the murk. Within three minutes after leaving The Arkette, they both spotted what they realized would fit every requirement — a specimen spectacular, weird, typical of the Lost Continent, something for which Von Zorn would pay well. It was Barrows who saw it first.
"Mr. Strike," he whispered. "Straight ahead. D'you see what I see?"
Strike peered at the telescope's screen, sucked in his breath in sudden delight.
"Oood Oood!" he murmured. "What is it?"
That was a question Barrows couldn't answer. It was easily one of the strangest animals he had ever seen in five years expeditionary work with Gerry Carlyle. The thing had a perfectly round body some four feet high, and it ran on four legs. But amazingly, it carried eight spare legs. One set of four protruded from the left side of its back at a forty-five degree angle; the other set protruded from t
he right side at a similar angle. In the center of its head was a mouth surrounded by three eyes forming the points of a triangle. The thing was triplets! No matter how it rolled, or which side was undermost, it would always be upright!
Strike quivered with anticipation. He could see Von Zorn's face when he brought this beauty home. He could see Gerry's face, slightly green, as he showed her his check. He could see —
"Hey! He's moving off. Don't let him get away!" Tommy pumped a shell into the chamber and slogged rapidly through the fog. He and Barrows caught up with their quarry in time to see a strange duel.
It was very brief, over in a few seconds, this contest between the twelve-legged monster and another of the deadly sling-shot trees. As the animal trotted slowly along a dimly marked game trail, there sounded a swish and crack as the tree attacked. But the dodecaped simply allowed himself to be knocked rolling off to one side, came up on another set of legs, and trotted serenely on just beyond the baffled grasp of the tree.
Strike hugged himself in delight; this was marvelous.
"Nature's balance," he hissed. "Everything has its match somewhere —"
"Yes, sir; I know. But he's getting away again. Give it to 'im!"
Strike whipped up the hypo rifle and fired. Twelve-legs whirled, nipped at the wound, then began to gallop heavily away. Barrows and Strike ran after him. In a minute or so the drug began to take effect, and the victim stopped with head hanging, wobbling at the knees.
"Got 'em!" yelled Strike in triumph. But too soon. Twelve-legs rolled over onto another set of legs and started off like a sprinter.
"What!" yammered Strike. "That's impossible. He can't do that!"
"If he's three animals rolled into one," cried Barrows, throwing his own reserve gun to his shoulder, "each part may be more or less separate from the other. So while the drug paralyzes one-third of 'im, it takes longer to penetrate to the other two-thirds."