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      To Venus! To Venus! by
          David Grinnell

                            CHAPTER I


  "Chet, this is Orbiter. Do you read us?"

  "Loud and clear. What's cooking?"

   "Nothing. Just wanted you to know that your target is right on the
other side of the next ridge. One more climb and you're there. Just keep
picking them up and laying them down and you'll be there in time for
lunch. Going clear."

  "Thanks a lump. Out."

   Chet Duncan knew that the boys in the mother ship, orbiting high
above the moon's surface, were being flip in an attempt to encourage him;
he appreciated their efforts but he was tired and did not want to waste
energy talking unnecessarily. He had been trekking across the dry lunar
landscape for several hours, and it was hard work. Theoretically, the
one-sixth Earth gravity pull should have made the trip a series of effortless
leaps and long strides. But, as usual, there was a tremendous gap between
theory and practice, particularly when you were dealing with a branch of
one of the most specialized government services, the Space Agency of the
United States.

  Survival in space required an extraordinary amount of gear, and, of
course, you were expected to survive in the manner and method approved.
As a result, the advantage of a weakened gravity was more than
compensated for by the necessity of carrying six times the equipment
required for a similar trip on Earth. The cumbersome suit with its heavy
helmet, bottled oxygen, air-conditioning equipment, the recycling
apparatus; these plus batteries and communications equipment and
sundry emergency supplies added up to a burden which had Chet
perspiring. But he had crossed the empty crater and only its wall stood
between him and his goal.

   He clumped along, dragging one heavy foot after the other as he started
the long climb which would take him over the final ridge. His left
earphone was tuned in to the wavelength of Jim Holmes, who was his
target. Jim had been fulfilling his assignment of cruising the surface in the
ungainly looking but very efficient moonwalker when the machine had
suddenly stopped operating. Chet hoped to get it restarted.

    His right earphone received the wavelength of the mother ship, which
would eventually take everybody back to Earth. It took a bit of getting
used to, this business of receiving two channels simultaneously, but it had
been covered in the intensive training he had received, and now he could
listen to two conversations at the same time and make sense of both. The
microphone in his helmet beamed his words to the mother ship, which
received them and relayed them back over the entire lunarscape or even,
when desired, back to Earthbase.

   Chet figured that at the present rate he would be at the top of the
crater's ridge in just under two hours, and from there it would be a
downhill slide until he reached the moonwalker. He had no way of being
sure exactly what had caused it to stop working because Jim, although an
excellent geologist, was absolutely hopeless when it came to anything
mechanical. If it was the shearpin, as Chet guessed, he would have it
operating again within fifteen minutes of his arrival. If it was anything
else, he would have to run a series of tests and hope he found the source of
the trouble quickly and that it would not involve some unobtainable part.

   As he panted his way up the steep cliff, Chet was surprised to find that
uppermost in his mind was not the failure of the mission if he was unable
to repair the moonwalker; his immediate attention was occupied by the
discouraging possibility of having to hike all the way back to his point of
origin in order to be picked up by the mother ship. Since he was in no
mood to concentrate on so unpleasant a prospect, he fixed his mind on the
broadcasts from Earth which were being rediffused into his left earphone.
As often happened, Earthbase was relaying the international news
broadcast:

   "It was officially announced in Moscow today that a team of
cosmonauts headed by Commander Raffalovich has effected a landing on
the planet Venus."

   Chet snorted. He had long ago learned to withhold judgment on first
hearing any news which officially proclaimed a great Russian
breakthrough. It was true that they had accomplished a great deal. One
could never forget that they had been the first of Earth's nations to achieve
space orbit. Nevertheless, it was just as true that they had often
announced spectacular achievements which later turned out to be of
minor substance. This story could mean that an orbiting mothership
captained by Raffalovich had sent an unmanned probe on to the Venusian
surface, or they might be claiming the actual setting foot of cosmonauts
on Earth's neighbor. This would indeed be spectacular. Even if the
explorers never left the ship, their very presence on Venusian soil would
constitute an impressive first.

  Chet listened intently as he plodded carefully upward.

  "Information relayed by the landing to the team is being transmitted
and, when it has been analyzed and tested for accuracy, its results will be
made public for the greater betterment of mankind."

   Experts in various parts of the world had been contacted and their
comments sought in order to clarify the news item. But in view of the
terseness of the announcement and the lack of accompanying data, there
was little they could venture beyond giving their views on the planet itself
and the feasibility of any sort of landing. Chet himself was not one to deny
that such a feat was possible. After all, while he was climbing up and down
on the surface of the moon, he was not apt to feel that further adventures
to nearby planets were beyond the reach of man.

   But the key words, as Chet saw it, were, "… information relayed by the
landing to the team…" This would seem to be a clear indication that the
landing unit was unmanned. The "team" to which the information was
being relayed could be anywhere from a close-parked orbit around Venus
to headquarters somewhere "East of the Urals." In view of the fact that the
United States had announced months ago that its own probe, carrying the
most sophisticated instruments, was on its way to penetrate the clouds of
Venus and report on its atmosphere, temperature and ground conditions,
he found it easy to believe that the Soviet announcement was calculated to
steal the thunder from the American effort.

   Turning it over in his mind and considering the announcement from
every conceivable angle kept him occupied so that time flew by as he
covered the difficult ground. Almost before he was ready, for it, he reached
the top of the crater and paused as he glanced down its sloping outer rim.
Not only was it downhill, but it was nowhere near as steep as his upward
climb. Two hundred yards away, just where the slope met the level ground,
the moonwalker was perched motionless.

  "Hey, Jim," he called on the intercom wavelength, "I've got you in sight
and I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."

   "I know," Jim replied casually, "I've been following you on the
bounce-radar. Judging by your speed, I thought at first that I had latched
onto some fat moon caterpillar and I was about to report it as a fantastic
discovery when I recognized your outline. They wouldn't have believed me
anyway," he concluded solemnly; "caterpillars travel much faster than
that. Even fat ones."

   Chet smiled but made no reply. Regulations required radio silence
except for necessary conversation. And going by the book, a three word
answer was all that would have been required from Jim. But going by the
book was not Jim's habit. He was a well trained geologist whose natural
aptitude for his profession made him one of the finest in the business. He
was not the military type and had been induced to enter the Space Service
simply because his country needed him and made its need very clear. He
would go anywhere they wanted to send him and do anything they wanted
done, but he would do it his way. Jim Holmes was an innate civilian.

  When he was just a few yards from the walking machine, Chet called
out, "Are you prepared to open up?"

  "Sure thing," came the laconic answer. "Suit's under pressure, cabin
depressurized."

   The main hatch swung open and Chet climbed aboard. Although face to
face within the confines of the small cabin, the two still conversed by radio
within their individual pressure suits.

  "Have you any idea of what's wrong?" Chet asked.

   "Not the slightest," Jim said, shaking his head. "I thought that's why
they sent you."

   "Sure. I just thought you might have some clue. Let's take a look at the
shearpin."

  "Help yourself."

   Chet dropped to his knees, unscrewed a floor plate, and lifted it off. He
thrust his arm deep into the aperture, felt around, and allowed his fingers
to run up and down the smooth shaft he located.

  "Tell me," he asked his friend, who sat comfortably watching him.
"what happened?"

  "It just quit."

   "I know that," he answered a trifle impatiently. "I mean, did the power
fail or did you suddenly lose traction?"

   Jim looked genuinely baffled. "I really don't know," he said. "We just
stopped and then I turned off the motor and called in."

  "Okay. Let's try it another way," Chet persisted. "Was the motor
running before you shut it off?"

  "Oh, sure. That's what I've been trying to tell you. It was running but we
weren't getting anywhere so I switched it off." Jim seemed to think he was
dealing with an idiot.

   "Gotcha," Chet said. "One minute you were rolling merrily alone; and
then there was a snap and the walker stopped walking but the motor kept
running so you switched it off and called Orbiter."

  "You are so right." Jim smiled then he looked puzzled. "But how did you
know about the snap?"

   "I didn't. I was just hoping. I think we may be in luck. It sounds as if
the problem is nothing more than a broken shearpin, and I brought along
a spare. We ought to be underway inside of ten minutes."

   "Well, if it's that easy," Jim said, "you'd think they would tell us about it
so that we could fix it ourselves."

   "They did."

  "Oh." He watched as Chet removed the broken pin and slipped the new
one into place. Then an idea occurred to him.

   "But won't whatever caused it to break in the first place have the same
effect on this one? I mean, nothing's changed inside, has it?"

   Chet finished his repairs but left the floorplate out of place. "No,
nothing's changed," he explained, "but nine times out of ten when these
things go, it's because of ordinary fatigue. Unless you were jammed and
tried to force the moonwalker through, the chances are we'll be on our
way."

   "Nothing jammed and I didn't force anything," Jim said. He sounded
relieved.

    Chet climbed into the driver's seat, which was perched high on a pole
which slanted out of the floor. Jim took the navigator's seat to the right of
the driver; the moonwalker could be operated from either location, but
Jim was delighted to ride as a passenger. They buckled on their shoulder
harnesses and Chet threw the main switch, which activated the
instrument panel. All gauges showed normal with ample power reserves
indicated. Through long habit, he read out each gauge, and Jim's eyes
flickered over the panel as he followed the routine. Finally Chet closed his
heavily gloved fingers over the motor switch and moved it to the on
position.

   The microphones in his helmet picked up the answering hum and the
slight vibration testified that the motor was turning efficiently. He
increased power and reached for the clutch shaft. He eased it forward
slowly and the giant revolving legs on either side of the cabin came to life.
Lurching and heaving like some giant beetle, the moonwalker moved
ahead as it started to climb the slope. At once, Chet pulled back the clutch
and reduced power to minimum idling. He spun the crank which locked
the clutch into neutral and unfastened his harness.
  "I guess we're okay," he said simply.

  "Thank heavens," Jim breathed fervently.

   Swiftly, Chet replaced the floorplate and plugged his suit into the
moonwalker's system. Jim remained in his seat but plugged himself into
the same system.

  "Moonwalker to Orbiter." Chet had switched to the correct frequency
and placed the call. The answer came immediately.

  "Orbiter. Gotcha. Go ahead."

  "This is Chet. Moonwalker's operational. Shall I proceed to the bug?"

  "Right. How long do you expect it to take you?"

    "I'm going to take the easy way around, even though it will take me a
little longer. I should be there in about three and a half hours. Figure time
to transfer. We should be in a position to lift off in four and a half hours
from now. How does that fit in?"

   As Chet talked, he pulled a set of charts from their nesting place and
spread one of them on the table in front of him. The orbiting mother ship
would be feeding the information he had relayed into their computer in
order to determine how soon, after three and a half hours, they would be
in a position to rendezvous. This gave Chet just enough time to
double-check his route and confirm his time estimates.

   "Okay, Chet, we'll take you off in four hours, seventeen and
three-quarter minutes; that will be 15:20:22 Washington Mean Time. Do
you want a time check?"

   Chet immediately punched the button at the bottom of the clock
located on the instrument panel. This allowed it to be electronically
checked and corrected by Orbiter. Now it was simply a matter of keeping
to his schedule. Perhaps "simply" was the wrong word. A thousand things
could go wrong. Navigating the lumbering moonwalker was in itself a job
which could be rated a solid day's work.

  If everything went well, they should reach the bug in plenty of time to
button up the walker, deactivating it and transferring its delicate
instrumentation to the vehicle which would take them to the mother ship.
The walker would be left behind to await the arrival of the next team.
Then there would be the activating of the bug, the correct setting of the
telemetry and guidance equipment and a serene wait to be lifted off and
picked up by the mother ship. That was all there was to it, if everything
went well. Chet realized, of course, that the reason he and Jim, two human
beings, were involved at all was because when things did not go entirely as
planned, there was no machinery which could match the brain.


   The bug hove into view with time to spare. Chet maneuvered the walker
close in, tucking it under an overhanging promontory as protection
against a shower of meteorites which might damage it during its idle wait.
Then the two men began the laborious transfer of equipment. The solar
batteries were dismantled and placed within their insulated storage
containers where they would remain inoperative and shielded from the
excesses of heat and cold until needed again. When this work was
completed, Chet took a final look around as Jim clambered aboard the
bug, then he joined him. The pressure door clanged shut and Chet spun
the locking wheels; that done, he began the pressure buildup, drawing on
the vehicle's atmospheric tanks.

   He brought the instrument panel to life and carefully adjusted a series
of slide-switches, tuning the main antennae to the precise pattern of the
mother ship's emanations. From then on, the remote-control equipment
upon which their safe pickup depended would respond only to the precise
radar pattern of the orbiting base.

   All the instruments brought from the moonwalker were plugged into
their appropriate receptacles so that they became part of the bug's
integral system. Once the bug had been picked up by the mother ship,
they would be available to it as well. Now there was nothing to do but
wait. If something went wrong during the pickup and coupling, Chet
would be available to take over direct, manual control; but barring
mishap, lift-off, rendezvous and final coupling would be effected
automatically.

   As soon as the cabin-pressure light winked green, indicating that the
atmosphere aboard equaled that of Earth at about six thousand feet, Jim
started to divest himself of the bulky spacesuit. This was not correct
procedure.
   "Hey, buddy, you might want to have that thing on if we suddenly lose
pressure," Chet called pleasantly. Since the cabin was up to pressure, voice
could travel normally through the air. Chet, however, still enclosed in his
helmet, spoke through microphones. Jim, who had discarded his
earphones when he had taken off his helmet, could hear Chet's words
clearly over the cabin loudspeakers. His own voice was picked up by the
in-cabin microphone.

   "If we suddenly lose pressure," he said, "I don't want to be around to
know it. I'd rather cash in quickly than linger around on this desolate rock
or up in the emptiness. You know they couldn't rescue us soon enough.
Besides, the suit's a drag. It weighs a ton."

  "True enough. Nevertheless, regulations call for—"

   "Aw come on, Chet. Regulations are written by some cat whose job calls
for him never to leave his desk except for an occasional parade. When we
dock with Mama, we'll go straight through a pressurized air lock into her
pressurized cabin where everyone will be wearing regular fatigues, right?
So what's the point of waiting around in a full suit of armor?"

   Chet was about to persist, but the warning buzzer sounded and lights
blinked to life on the panel, indicating lift-off was about to occur.

   Without a voice-transmitted message, the bug lifted off and was swept
into contact with the mother ship.




                           CHAPTER II


   Chet crawled gingerly through the air lock, taking care not to strike his
helmet against the narrow bulkhead. He snapped a perfunctory salute as
he stepped aside to permit the entry of Jim, who followed close behind.
Two of the crewmen came to his side and helped him take off his helmet.
He swung his head this way and that, enjoying his new-found freedom.
The crewmen, both officers who equaled him in rank, continued to help
him shed his awkward suit: Phillip Lombardi and Douglas Mailie, both
excellent astronauts.
  Captain Alexander Borg, senior officer in charge of the expedition,
came forward to greet the returning men.

   "Good to see you safe aboard, Chet," he said, his face softening as much
as it ever did.

  "Thank you, sir."

  The softness disappeared from the captain's swarthy countenance.

  "Holmes! Where is your suit?"

  "In there, sir." Jim pointed toward the air lock which led to the bug.

   "There was some emergency? You were injured and had to de-suit in
order to receive first aid? A malfunction in the suit, perhaps?"

   Jim looked miserably uncomfortable. "No, sir," he stammered, "it's just
that… well, you see…"

   "No, I don't see!" the captain roared. He respected the young geologist's
ability, but he could not stand an infraction of regulations—especially of
safety procedures. "Go in there and get it. And bring your suit and report
to me."

   Jim managed a pleasant grin. "I have the report right here, sir," he
said, offering it to the captain.

  "Get that suit!"

   "Yes, sir." Jim turned, dropped the tape pack carrying his report,
picked it up and scurried through the bulkhead, bumping his head.

   "All right, Chet, come into my office." Captain Borg led the way to his
"office," which was simply a cubicle containing a small table and a double
bench at either side.

   Chet had taken his tape pack from his suit. It contained a full account
of his mission. He placed it on the table.

  "My report, sir," he said.

  "Good." Captain Borg took it and tucked it into a container on the wall
near him. Later, it would be condensed to its vital parts and he would
listen to it. His brows furrowed as he leaned slightly forward.

   "You heard the earlier report about the Russian Venus probe?" he
asked.

  "Yes I did. Something about a landing on the surface. I couldn't tell
whether it was supposed to be manned or not."

   "That's the way they like it," Borg said, "but while you were in your
approach and docking we received an update on the story. Seems the
mission was unmanned. An automatic station sending loud and clear from
the surface of Venus!"

   "So they've developed hardware and batteries capable of taking the
heat and transmitting through it." Chet looked impressed. It did not strike
him as an outstanding technological breakthrough, but, as an astronaut,
he respected efforts and achievements in space at any level, by any human.

   "Seems they didn't have to," Borg continued evenly, betraying nothing
more than a straight reporter's manner. "Seems that the surface of Venus
is not too different from Central Africa. Kinda hot. Nice soil. Plant life.
Even real, honest-to-goodness plants. The kind of place our friend Holmes
would like; he wouldn't have to wear a suit."

   Chet was stunned. Both the United States and Soviet flybys had
indicated, and the scientific world had agreed, that the surface
temperature of Venus had to be well over 600° Fahrenheit. Pure lead
would run like a river at that heat.

  "Has that been confirmed?" he gasped.

  "Sure has," Borg replied laconically, "by the Russians."

   "But I mean, has anybody else agreed?" Chet floundered. The news was
altogether too surprising to be taken in stride.

    "Has anyone else agreed?" Borg asked. "Who could agree or disagree?
It's their probe, their signal, their interpretation and their announcement.
They say they have sent something up from Earth. We can check that.
They're right. They say that the thing was headed toward Venus. We can
check that; they're right. They say it headed right into the planet. We can
check that, too: they're right again. Now they say that it has landed and is
telling them something; we cannot check that. Jodrell Banks, Arecibo,
everything our side has is trying but we have not been able to pick up
anything. They tell us it is saying that Venus is offering us a warm
welcome. Hot but hearty. Plants and plenty. It contradicts everything we
know… or think we know. What do you think?"

   "I really don't know, sir," he said, lapsing into the formal address
because of his uncertainty, "but there are two main reasons which cause
me to question this report right off the top of my head. First, all the
information which the Free World has been gathering points to conditions
exactly the opposite of those you just described. Until now, the Russians
have agreed with our findings. Secondly, the Russians have a knack for
confusing the world. Sometimes, it seems, for the sheer sake of confusion."

   Jim Holmes had approached the cubicle as Chet was talking and he
stood a few feet away, his suit bundled neatly under one arm while his free
hand held his tape pack report. Captain Borg glared at the suit and then
at the face of the geologist.

   "Okay. Put that suit down and let's have your report." He accepted the
tape pack and filed it in the same receptacle which held Chet's report. He
motioned Jim to a seat next to Chet. Jim squeezed into place.

  "You've heard about the Russian Venus probe?"

  "Yes, they've been telling me."

  "What do you think?"

   "Me?" Jim brightened considerably. "Well, I wouldn't start planning a
new hotel or anything up there. I think it would take more
air-conditioning than we can afford."

  "Meaning?"

   "Meaning, sir, that I refuse to believe it right now," Jim replied. "Unless
I was ordered to, sir," he added.

  Chet barely suppressed a smile.

  Borg stared for a moment. Then he sighed. "That makes it unanimous.
Five of us aboard. Five trained men, astronauts who think in terms of
space; some of us scientists in our own fields. And not one who is willing
to accept the Russian story." He shook his head. "I think I would feel
better if one of us had argued the other side."

  Phillip and Douglas had joined them, standing by the edge of the table.

   "After all," Borg continued, "in spite of the fact that the Russians may
seem peculiar to us in the way they do things, they're not stupid."

   "The first Sputnik was Russian," Jim agreed, "so was the first man in
orbit. And the first spacewalker."

  Borg nodded.

   "It seems to me that I heard somewhere that when the first Russian
was orbiting Earth and sending messages, a number of our scientists
thought the thing was a hoax," Jim continued.

  The captain exhaled a large breath. "Okay," he said, "let's get on with it.
Phil, what's been coming in?"

   The meeting broke up as Phil went to the teleprinter and gathered the
sheaf of papers on which each incoming message was continuously
recorded.


   Chet was sound asleep in his cramped bunk when Doug pulled the
curtain aside and awakened him. "Captain wants you," he said.

   Chet climbed out, rinsed his face in the tiny sink, using no more than
two ounces of water, and walked to the captain's office. Borg was seated
on his side of the table and Chet sat opposite him. Doug joined him.

   "Duncan, I wouldn't have disturbed you if it wasn't important. You've
earned your rest and you need it." It was not Borg's habit to apologize for
ordering someone to duty. "We've got orders to set up an antenna to
monitor the Russian Venus probe. Mailie will second you. He's already got
the location worked out."

  Doug placed a finger on the chart which covered the tabletop.

  "Here, Chet," he said; "this crater will do nicely."
  Chet tried to dissolve the remnants of sleep which fogged his mind.

  "You mean we're not going to monitor right from here?" he asked.

  "No, they want the highest precision possible. We'll set up a W-type
bowl antenna with a self-contained recorder."

   "Or we could microwave back to you and tape it here," Chet suggested
hopefully. The W-type was the heaviest rig they carried and he knew from
hard experience that any sort of work while encased in the spacesuit
required enormous exertion. Special undersuits helped to control the rate
of perspiration but they, too, added weight and all in all, it became highly
desirable to keep things simple and the workload to a minimum.

  "Highest possible precision." Borg spoke slowly, clearly. "Let's leave it
up to you. Select whatever rig you want for the job."

  "W-type bowl antenna," Chet said resignedly.

   "Good. We're processing the bug now; it will be fueled and loaded in
forty-five minutes. How long will it take you to be ready?"

  "Forty-five minutes, sir."

   "Fine, but don't cut any corners. We're in a hurry but our first duty is to
the success and safety of our mission."

  "I understand," Chet said.

  Captain Borg looked at his watch. "Very well, then. Take-off will be in
one hour. We'll set you down as close to your spot as possible. There's a
good landing site no more than a hundred yards away so we won't use the
mooncrawler. That'll save us time. Now get yourself something to eat."

  Chet appreciated the last order. He felt starved.

  "Mailie can brief you while you're eating," Borg added, dismissing the
two.

  Chet got to his feet and made his way toward the food locker. Captain
Borg was the most competent officer he had ever known; he was, however,
not the softest or most compassionate. Perhaps those were opposite
qualities. Chet acknowledged that Borg drove himself as hard as he drove
the others and he was strictly fair, but his idea of generosity was to award
an extra fifteen minutes in which to prepare for an eighteen-hour mission.
And he would positively insist that you got a good meal… provided you got
an indepth briefing in between chomps! Chet took one of the specially
prepared food pies from the freezer and popped it into the electronic oven.
In less than a minute, the pie was steaming hot. He had no idea what
ingredients went into its preparation; it was dietetically balanced and
designed to be easily and comfortably digested in space. It tasted good.
Much better than the tubes of cold paste which he would be packing with
him. He listened carefully as Doug explained the mission and poured forth
details.

   As Chet was suiting up, he mentally reviewed the operational plans he
had been given. It was as routine as anything in space could be. A simple
glide path to the surface, the flight and landing controlled by computer
from the mother ship. Then hours of backbreaking work putting together
the antenna bowl, hooking in the recorder and carefully focusing it on the
incoming signals from Venus. This would be followed by a long, tedious
wait, sheltered in the bug, while the recorder did its automatic work.
Finally the antenna would have to be disassembled and stowed aboard the
bug before lift-off back to the mother ship. It was tiring to think of the
mission as a whole. Better to concentrate on each step as it came up.

   It would be much simpler, Chet thought, if the mother ship itself could
land on the moon's surface. But it couldn't, he knew. The mother ship was
a large and heavy vehicle and used up too much fuel in any maneuver but
drifting. Chet knew that some day new and more powerful propulsion
systems would allow giant ships to soar and take off from every corner of
reachable space. He only wished that day were now. But it wasn't, so he
settled himself into the bug and strapped himself in as Doug occupied the
adjacent seat.

   His earphones crackled with messages flowing over the intercom in
preparation for the castoff toward the surface. Although he was
technically the pilot, he had nothing to do but listen as each instrument
was read and checked by Phillip and Captain Borg. Just before the final
countdown, the captain said, "Happy landings, fellows, and remember,
maintain radio silence until return. We'll relay Earth messages toward you
but we won't be talking to you ourselves. Good luck!" There was a click as
the intercom connections parted, along with all the other support systems.
The mother ship had let go. Four tiny jets eased the bug away from her
protective skirts and, firing alternately, they positioned the small craft for
its descent to the pale surface. The precise retrothrust was applied and the
bug broke orbit and began its moonward spiral, carrying the two
astronauts to their destination.


   It was the time of the long wait. The antenna was in place; it was
focused correctly onto the electronic signals emanating from Venus'
southern hemisphere. The recorder was soaking up the intricate series of
scratches and bleeps which spoke of the climate and general conditions as
they were supposed to be on Venus.

    Chet and Doug sat in the bug. They had not bothered to pressurize the
cabin but they had plugged their suits into its main system. They were to
get as close to ten hours of recording time as possible. Their number one
priority at this point, however, was to be ready for lift-off, which would
come automatically and without prior message from the silent mother
ship. It would lift off with or without anybody aboard. Both men were
thoroughly determined to be aboard, but they weren't going to talk about
it.

  To kill time, Doug asked, "Do you think this will wrap it up? I mean, do
you think we'll be going back when we've completed this mission?"

   "There's no way of telling for sure, but I'd guess they're planning to lift
us off and cut this whole expedition back to Earth just as quickly as they
can."

   "You think so?" Doug asked eagerly.

   "The way I see it," Chet said, "we just happened to be at the right place
at the right moment. The Russians announce their Venus sensation just
when we're in a position to obtain the most accurate reading of their
setup. Now they may or may not know we're here but we're not going to
help them out by explaining what we're doing. So… radio silence. We've
got their data on tape and if we transmit it back, there's a good chance
that they'll intercept our signal and know how far we've gotten in checking
their story. So… no transmission of data. But Space Agency wants to get
their ears onto this tape. How can we best satisfy these requirements, Mr.
Mailie?"

   Chet had performed a near perfect mimicry of Captain Borg laying out
a problem.

   Doug cued himself into the playlet by assuming the subordinate role.
"In order to meet all the requirements, sir," he said stiffly, "we should
immediately and at once, sir, without further delay, make tracks for home
base right now, sir!"

  "Hand-carrying the tape, Mr. Mailie."

  "On a velvet cushion, sir!" Doug replied.




                          CHAPTER III


   In the Santa Monica Mountains, behind Malibu, the Space Agency
maintained its underground headquarters. Less than an hour from the big
civilian "think tanks" in Santa Barbara to the north and closer yet to the
bustling metropolis of Los Angeles to the south, it was ideally situated to
permit the assemblage of key personnel without drawing public attention.
The San Diego Freeway carried hundreds of thousands of cars each day;
thirty or forty unmarked cars of assorted makes could make their exit
within minutes of each other and be completely unnoticed in the rush of
traffic. Canyon Road, to which the exit led, was a public thoroughfare.
Private roads ran from it to the various ranches in the area; it was a
beautiful but desolate country. Several of the innocent-looking roads
which appeared to run aimlessly into the hills were, in reality, hidden
accesses to the enormous cavern in whose hardened site the Space
Authority had cemented itself.

   A three-year-old car of common make nosed its way along one of the
access paths. It seemed to contain a group of businessmen. They were
dressed casually and chatted among themselves as they rolled along. The
driver, in a sport shirt and light linen jacket, was a Special Operative of
the Space Agency. His passengers were Captain Alexander Borg, Chet
Duncan, Jim Holmes, Phillip Lombardi and Douglas Mailie.

   Thick cables, buried deep, carried communications lines. On the
surrounding peaks, microwave relays and laser transmitters augmented
the wire systems and insured that the nerve center of the Space Authority
would be in touch with every part of the world and the space surrounding
it, regardless of any conceivable attack. Its food and filtered air supply,
along with its water and other necessities, were calculated to last for two
years without outside replenishment. Its fuel and power generating
facilities were of similar capacity. It could withstand a direct nuclear hit,
the rubble of which would provide armor for a succeeding attack. At this
particular moment of history man's defensive ingenuity had caught up
with his offensive ability. There are no absolutes in warfare, but in a rigid
application of the laws of probability—and an advanced security
network—the Space Authority headquarters could be termed impregnable.

   Headquarters was not itself a prime originating source of space
missions. No flights were launched from it. It contained relatively few
tracking units or principal antennae. It was, instead, a vast, complex
control and training center which was linked, in fail-safe series, to
launching sites and instruments all over the earth and far into space.

    The characteristics of Captain Borg and his squad had been taken and
filed when they had first joined the Agency. When orders had been cut
requiring their presence at headquarters on this particular day, it was a
simple operation to add their characteristics to those which were to be
passed. When their visit was officially over, their names would be deleted
from the approved list and locked again in the master file.

   The agent who had driven them to the headquarters now led the party
to a conference room. It was a rectangular room, containing a horseshoe
table which had room for about a dozen chairs along its outside edge.
They were shown to seats at one of the edges, Captain Borg being seated
nearest the U-shaped head of the table. Looking to their left, they saw the
blank wall onto which charts, maps and anything pertinent to the meeting
could be projected. The room was well-lighted, soundproofed and
comfortably air-conditioned. They were left alone for a few minutes, which
they spent in silence.

   The door slid swiftly open and five men walked in. Three were dressed
in military uniform, two in business suits. A short man with a powerful
build and a shiny bald head took his place at the exact center of the table.
This was Creighton Curtis, director of the Space Agency. Known
throughout the service, but never to his face, as "Craggy," he represented
the final word on any matter dealing even indirectly with space. He
reported directly to the President of the United States, who alone could
overrule him. For very good reasons, "Craggy" had never been overruled.

   The other men took seats opposite Captain Borg's party. Curtis opened
the meeting by addressing himself to the astronauts.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "this is General Farsons, Army; Admiral Lawton,
Navy; General Slater, Air Force; and Mr. White."

   Everyone exchanged nods. There was no need to introduce the
astronauts because, as the invited party, it was obvious that everyone in
the room knew who they were. There was no further explanation as to who
the slight individual with the gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses was. He
was simply Mr. White and none of the astronauts cared to venture a
question. Jim Holmes thought briefly of asking who this guy White was
and why he was here, but with Captain Borg seated directly to the right of
him, Jim thought that perhaps he should remain silent. Curtis got down
to business.

   "Ordinarily, gentlemen, your debriefing would be carried on in an
individual and routine manner. But under the circumstances, we decided
that a group debriefing at this level would best suit our purpose. I have
your reports and your log and we have all been through them. I also have
the tape of the Venus signals brought back by your expedition. Who made
this recording?"

   "Chet Duncan, seconded by Douglas Mailie," Captain Borg snapped the
answer. Obviously the report contained that information but "Craggy"
liked to do things his way and Borg was keenly aware of the chain of
command. He expected obedience from his crew and he was perfectly
prepared to deliver obedience to those above him. That's the way things
got done.

  Curtis leaned back in his chair and looked directly at Chet.

   "Duncan, your record shows that you are thoroughly familiar with the
setting up and operation of type-W bowl antennae. Would you agree?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And, Mailie, you have accomplished this type of operation many times,
have you not?"
   "Yes, sir."

  Back to Chet: "You had just returned from a moon-crawler repair task
when you were ordered back to monitor these signals. Were you tired?"

   "Yes, sir, I was tired," Chet replied honestly, "but not to the extent that
my ability was impaired. I had slept some before I returned to the lunar
surface so I was in pretty good shape."

   "Mailie, you were performing routine watch while Duncan was
retrieving the mooncrawler. Is there anything we should know about your
physical condition before you embarked on the antenna mission?"

   "No, sir," Doug answered. "I was feeling fine. I had been following the
incoming news and Captain Borg asked me to prepare the preliminary
data for the antenna installation. When Chet and I took off, I felt that we
were both in condition. It was a pretty routine mission, sir. No
complications."

  Mr. White cleared his throat and in a thin, high-pitched voice said,
"Did either of you notice any unusual side effects once your mission was
underway? Dizziness… headache… anything at all out of the ordinary?"

   "No, sir," Chet and Doug spoke as one.

   Curtis sat up straight. "Let me tell you what's on this tape you brought
in," he said. "You will understand why I wanted to make absolutely certain
that your mission was carried out exactly in the manner it was supposed
to be. If you felt hurried, or tired, or out of sorts, you might have produced
results tainted by these conditions. I am now satisfied that this did not
happen. The signals you brought us are supposed to have originated in the
southern hemisphere of Venus. I must congratulate you on the accuracy
with which you set up your equipment; the signals are sharp and clear and
perfectly tuned."

   Both men felt a blush of gratitude for the compliment but neither
betrayed any sign of pride. Curtis addressed himself to Captain Borg.
"Your tape," he said, "corroborates the story the Russians have been
putting out. Mr. White here can translate the Russian system of messages
with an accuracy which Moscow would envy. What we have here is a
report which has been signaled back by an automatic station located
somewhere in the southern hemisphere of Venus." He paused. The light
glinted off his head as he turned left and right, searching the faces of the
nine men. After a momentary silence, he said, "Now, Mr. White, could you
sum up for us briefly what is known, apart from these signals, of the
climate at Venus' surface."

   Again the gray-haired civilian cleared his throat. His tongue moistened
his lips and he looked down at the polished table as if reading from a
paper. There was nothing in front of him. "The data collected by such
respected scientists as Dayhoff, Eck, Lippincott, Sagan, Moroz, Mintz—I
could go on and on… these men represent many nations of the world—plus
the information gathered by our own Mariner probes from Five through
Eight and the Russian Venera probes Four through Seven, does not lead us
to a unanimous answer. That is to say that different conditions of testing
involving such methods as microwave, radar, flybys and probes produce
different results. Nevertheless, the results obtained have not varied from
each other to a shocking degree. By all the testing to date, Venus has been
shown to have a surface temperature in excess, certainly, of four hundred
degrees, and more likely approaching seven hundred degrees. Duststorms
are thought to abound and—"

  Curtis held up his hand and Mr. White stopped talking as if a switch
had turned him off.

   "For the purposes of this discussion, I believe we may limit ourselves to
a simple consideration of temperature levels. Weather conditions,
atmospheric content, and moisture availability can be compared in depth
later," Curtis said, "but right now let us focus on the temperature. There
are men in this room who have experienced temperatures in excess of four
hundred degrees. If he is protected by some form of life-support system
such as a spacesuit or vehicle, it is no startling development to hear that a
human being can function in the presence of such heat.

   "But the Russians say that no such life-support is necessary on Venus
because their little machine has settled onto its surface and found it to be
no hotter than the desert around here gets in summer. Gentlemen, I would
like each of you to express yourself on the credibility of that statement. For
this round, please limit yourself to no more than two or three sentences.
Mr. White?"

   White cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously. "I find it hard to
believe," he said.
   "It would be most useful if you could bring yourself to take one position
or the other," Curtis rejoined; "you can change your mind later, if you
wish, but how do you feel right now?"

   "I don't believe it," Mr. White said in a low voice. "General Slater?"

   "Negative!"

   "Admiral Lawton?"

  "Everybody says 'hot,' the Russians say 'cool'; I'll go along with the
majority. Navy says nyet." He smiled at his little joke. No one else smiled.
"General Farsons?"

   "It's a trick! I don't know what they're up to but they're trying to sell us
a bunch of poppycock. Of course I don't believe it!"

   "And now Captain Borg, if you please," Curtis turned toward the other
side of the table.

   "On the grounds that it contradicts everything we have learned, and
also because I have never believed in the Soviet method of post-facto
announcements, I have no faith in their latest allegation."

   "Holmes?"

   "Well, from an intellectual point of view, I believe it is our duty not to
believe anything until we have been given some good reason to believe it.
We do not blindly believe that two plus two equals four; we understand
the equation and agree with it and we therefore believe it. It's the same if
someone hands me a rock and tells me it happens to be gold-bearing ore.
I—"

   "Holmes!" Curtis barked. Jim got the message at once.

   "I have no reason to believe the latest Russian claim, sir," he said.

   "Lombardi?"

   "No, sir. I don't go along with it."

   "Mailie?"
   "No belief, sir."

   "And you, Duncan?"

   Chet frowned. He was wrestling with his conscience. He felt that he
might be justified in going along with the group in order to conclude this
phase of the interview and then bring up his private thoughts as the
discussion broadened. But he knew that Craggy was not just conducting
an exercise in conversation. The whole tone of the meeting was being set
by the spontaneous exposure of each man's present thinking. He shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. There was a lot of brass at the table and a
junior officer could not easily express a position in direct opposition.

   "Frankly, sir," he finally said, "at first I was inclined to dismiss their
story but I haven't been thinking of anything else since I first heard the
news and if I had to make a snap decision right now… I would accept the
Russian version."

  There was a momentary hush and then General Farsons snorted.
"Nonsense!" he said.

   "General Farsons." Curtis said calmly, "I have asked for nine separate
opinions. If I had wanted yours alone, I would have asked for it."

   General Slater addressed himself to Chet directly.

   "You apparently do not go along with the ideas of your young
colleague," he said, indicating Jim Holmes, "who believes it is our duty to
accept only something for which proof has been offered."

   "Not entirely, no, sir," Chet answered. "For instance, I've never had any
hard proof that my mother actually gave birth to me and I sure believe in
her."

   General Farsons barely suppressed another snort. Chet realised that it
was not coming out the way he wanted it to. It was a difficult thing to put
into words. He tried again.

   "What I mean is, that there are some things which you tend to accept
on faith. Of course if it is later proved to be wrong, you discard the thing. I
was personally involved in recording those signals. I know from my own
knowledge that they came from the southern hemisphere of Venus.
Nobody I've spoken to doubts that they are Russian signals. Although my
first reaction was negative. I cannot bring myself to believe that the
Soviets would attempt an enormous world-wide hoax which could very
quickly be exposed. Perhaps they are getting faulty readings—which they
believe."

   "The thing that confuses me." Doug Mailie remarked, "is what makes
the Russians so anxious to prove that Venus is habitable? Whether they
believe what they're saying, or whether they know it to be a lie, why are
they making such a big deal of it before checking it out thoroughly and
coming up with proof?"

    Mr. White's high voice answered him: "We've been monitoring the
Russian broadcasts ever since they came up with this. What we've found is
that the greatest emphasis is being placed on their Asian wavelengths.
They've been holding themselves out to these people as the Christopher
Columbus of our times. What they're saying is something like: 'Look, you
poor, overcrowded, starving masses, your friends the Russians have found
a special rice-filled heaven for your millions. The imperialistic capitalists
of America don't want you to have it. They want to exploit it for their
selfish profit, so they deny it exists. But with your help we can keep it for
all the people to whom it rightfully belongs. Join us in this mighty effort
and you will share in the glories and comforts of Communistic Venus.' One
thing is clear. They are using this as the basis of an all-out drive to gather
almost a billion Asians into their sphere of influence."

   The discussion continued with questions being asked and opinions
being delivered. The representatives of the Armed Forces were the most
unbending; Admiral Lawton seemed perhaps a little softer than the other
two but despite his more gracious manner he seemed as inflexible. The
astronauts forgot about rank and brass and joined the conversations
heatedly. Creighton Curtis alternately prodded and soothed, always asking
questions, never committing himself. Finally, he said, "Gentlemen, I do
not expect to reach any final conclusions at this discussion. I want you all
to know that I found your opinions most instructive and you are to be
congratulated for the energetic ways in which you put forth your views.
Before we adjourn I would like to ask one more question. Duncan, what
makes you so positive that the Russian Venus data is authentic?"

  Chet thought a moment before he replied. "Sir, I wish to state that I am
not at all positive that it is authentic. I simply feel a deliberate lie
constitutes a risk graver than the Russians would be likely to take. And as
regards the possibility of honest error, I believe too much supporting data
has been received. If it was temperature alone, I might be inclined to
blame faulty equipment. But the chance of similar error being reported in
the atmospheric readings as well as the soil characteristics and the
plantlife would be too much of a coincidence. Every facet of the data is
remarkably consistent with every other. No, sir. I feel sure we can rule out
instrument error. That leaves the question of whether they are telling us
the truth or deliberately lying."

  "And your feeling is that they are telling us the truth?"

  "That is my present feeling, sir, but it is not based on deep conviction.
My thinking might be affected by my anxiety to avoid the trap this thing
has set."

   "What kind of trap?" Curtis leaned back and closed his eyes. Those who
had worked with him before knew that this attitude reflected Craggy when
he was at his most alert.

   "Well, sir, if we officially deny the Soviet claim, and they turn out to be
right—a situation which will be resolved one way or the other within the
year, I'd guess —then zap! There goes our credibility and public confidence
for a long time to come. They'll claim we knew all along but tried to hide it
from the world. If they're wrong, they'll hang themselves, but if they're
right we can't deny them the victory without hurting ourselves badly."

  Curtis opened his eyes. "Good point. Gentlemen, thank you very much."

   Without another word, he stood up and left the room and the meeting
broke up.


   The five astronauts were provided rooms within the living quarters of
the complex. Chet and Doug roomed together, Jim and Phil shared a room
and Captain Borg was by himself. They were given no specific duties but
were told that they could expect to remain there for two or three days and
to be on hand if needed. They worked out regularly at the fully-equipped
gym, played a lot of handball and watched television in the ward room.
Still, time hung heavy. There was little discussion about recent events and
no speculation about the future. They had long ago learned that, when you
were cooped up, things ran a great deal smoother if you avoided
second-guessing yesterday's errors and trying to forecast upcoming
missions.

  Captain Borg did speak briefly and privately to Chet once.

   "I think you did a good job at the meeting. I know it isn't easy to be the
only dissenter in the room. And I won't pretend to agree with your
position because I did not agree with what you said. But I'm proud of you
for saying it."

   "Thank you, sir. I'm afraid I got the distinct impression that the
generals and the admiral don't quite share your opinion. I think I annoyed
them. I hope Craggy didn't get too upset."

   "Mr. Curtis is a fair man; he was after information. I wouldn't worry
about him. But tell me, Chet, just between us, feeling as you do, what do
you suggest we do about this mess? That's the one thing I was hoping
they'd get around to."

   "I guess they didn't bring us there to make policy. They just wanted our
first reactions," Chet said.

  "True enough," Borg persisted, "but how would you handle it?"

   "Well, I haven't really thought about it too much," Chet answered, "but
we have a Mariner launch coming up in a few weeks. I'd suggest that they
modify whatever package they're sending up to lock in on the Russian
discovery. And furthermore, I'd try to plunk it down in the southern
hemisphere someplace. We might get some answers of our own."

   "Hmmm. Of course the Mariner flight will take three months to get
there after launching. What's our official position till then?"

   "I simply wouldn't take an official position. I'd let things go on the way
they are. Individual scientists are making personal statements. News
commentators are coming up with their own analyses and a bunch of
Congressmen are making the usual noises. They're all pretty well agreed
that the Russians are pulling a hoax. I figure that if everybody just goes on
talking it will sound like an official position and we can sweat it out until
we've got something more concrete to go on. Then we can officially accept
or deny the story without climbing out on a limb."
   "Chet, we're on opposite sides of the fence as regards our evaluation of
the Russian information," Borg said, "but I think you're one hundred
percent right about what we should do. Ah, well, ours not to reason why, I
suppose."


  When Craggy sent for him it was not by telephone.

   One of those efficient, hard-faced men came to collect him and guide
him through the maze of elevators and fast-moving conveyors. Craggy's
office was large. Large enough for the minor conferences which were a
continuous part of his working life. Although the office was not as
complete as the main Action Room, its walls contained enough electronic
equipment to keep him in touch with the world. One wall was made of
glass and was nothing more than a huge phosphor screen which acted as
an oversize, bright-light television set. Any camera, projector or
pantograph in the world could be connected to it. The director's desk was
large and strangely old-fashioned. It was his personal piece and it amused
some people to learn that the country's most up-to-date agency, the one
which was so modern that it was always working ahead of its own time,
was run from a piece of furniture which was an authentic antique. But
Craggy would not be without it. It had belonged to his grandfather, and
his grandfather had been President of the United States.

   Chet's guide took him directly to the edge of the ancient desk and then
silently withdrew. Craggy looked up from the documents he had been
reading.

  "Ah, Duncan," he said genially, "good of you to come. Make yourself
comfortable; I'll be right with you."

   Chet sat in the nearest straight-backed chair as Craggy put his
signature to several papers.

  "Duncan, you joined the Agency as a volunteer," Craggy said.

   This was hardly news; there was no other way to become an astronaut.
Nobody was conscripted or drafted into the unit. In fact the rate of
selection was approximately four out of every hundred who applied.

  "Yes, sir."
   "Well, that's fine. You see, Duncan, we need volunteers. There are times
which call for the application of something beyond the usual direct orders.
Special times when the man must be dedicated to the task in hand; he
must volunteer to take risks which could not, in good conscience, be
assigned him by order. You do follow me?"

  "Yes, sir," Chet said, feeling somehow that he had just volunteered for
something.

   "Ah, splendid," Craggy said solemnly, "then can we count on you to join
the team of Operation Immediate?"

  "Operation Immediate, sir?"

   "Yes, Duncan. A three-man team, all volunteers. We cannot accept
married men on this one. We need young fellows, men with a minimum of
personal ties, yet with enough experience to undertake an extremely
important mission. Operation Immediate is the name which covers the
three volunteers, their back-up and support unit and all the equipment
necessary to achieve a manned landing on the southern hemisphere of
Venus."




                          CHAPTER IV


  "A manned Venus landing!" Chet's first reaction was high enthusiasm
mixed with pride at being chosen. Then the sobering facts closed in on
him and questions collided within his mind. To a layman, a trip to the
moon might not seem different from a voyage to Venus, but a trained man
knew all too well the enormous differences between the two. The danger
was best illustrated by the fact that although moon landings were fairly
commonplace, no human being had come within millions of miles of
Venus.

  "Can we count on you?" Curtis asked.

   "Yes, sir, of course!" Chet's reply was automatic. "But may I ask where
the training site will be and who is the chief administrative officer of the
project?"

   "Naturally. The training site will be here and Operation Immediate will
be under my personal direction. Captain Borg has been assigned as aide
and he will work with you."

   Chet was surprised. Ordinarily a separate base would have been set up
to prepare for a project of this magnitude. He guessed that a training
period of twelve to fourteen months would be scheduled during which two
or three unmanned shots would be launched to pave the way for the three
astronauts. The idea of Craggy tying himself to this single project for so
long a period of time seemed unrealistic. "I didn't quite understand, sir.
I'm just guessing, but I suppose we'll be at it for a year or so, and your
time…"

   Curtis interrupted Chet with his eyes; they narrowed slightly although
his voice was still quiet and his manner lacking excitement.

  "The launching date," Curtis said, "and by that I mean the lift-off for
Venus with the three-man team aboard, will occur in exactly forty-three
days."

  Chet felt it in his stomach. He became aware that he was standing up.
He did not remember getting to his feet. Chet had the horrible fear that he
would turn and run right out of the room. The shock passed in seconds
and he heard Curtis saying, "Sit down, Duncan; we've got lots to talk
about."

  Chet sat down and shook his head.

   "Forty-three days!" He still could not sweep away the stickiness which
the news had created in his brain. "What are we going in?"

   "As you know," Curtis replied, "information regarding the Agency is
released to personnel on a need-to-know basis. Each man receives only
such information necessary for him to function competently at his
assigned task. Under the circumstances you and your crew will be cleared
to receive all levels of information pertaining to Operation Immediate.
You will restrict what you learn to the immediate members of your crew.
Captain Borg and myself. As of now, everything which comes to your
attention, including this conversation, is to be considered covered by the
Secrecy Act of 1979. Is that clear?"
   "Yes, sir." Chet was back to normal and he knew there was no point to
asking the hundreds of questions which wriggled within him. Everything
would be made clear to him in an orderly process.

  "All right. So far I've spoken only to Captain Borg so I am not in a
position to give you the names of your crew. You'll all be assigned to the
same quarters. As soon as I've had a chance, by this evening probably,
you'll receive your first in-depth briefing together. You're aware of the
Mariner launch which is being put together?"

   Chet nodded.

   "Although we're retaining the Mariner classification, this shot is
scheduled to be the first of the N series. Mariner N-1. N is for nuclear.
You'll be going up, first, second and third stage, on chemical rockets as
usual. The command module is nuclear. We had planned it as an
instrument shot but it was going to be carrying a fully-equipped module.
Its design incorporates the fittings and space for a planetary landing
vehicle and a service module. Dummy weights representing these were
going to be attached since we hadn't figured on sending the whole package
on an instrument shot. Now we'll simply replace the ballast with the real
thing and we'll beat the Russians at their own game. Forty-three days
from now is the precise time for a Venus shot. There is a few-day leeway,
but after that the relative position of Venus and Earth will start to
deteriorate and won't be favorable again for over a year."

   There was a moment of silence.

   "That's about all I can say at the moment but we'll get together this
evening."

   Chet stood up, this time voluntarily.

   "Oh, and Duncan," Curtis called as Chet reached the door. Chet turned
around, deep in thought.

   "Thanks for volunteering," Curtis said.

  "Yes, sir," Chet replied. He left. If he had volunteered, he said to
himself, then the Mariner N-1 was a sailboat.

   Chet spent most of the afternoon moving into the new quarters which
had been assigned to him, getting used to them and meeting his new
crewmates. Each had a room to himself and each room was the same,
including Captain Borg's. A comfortable bed, a lounge chair, a desk, radio
and television and telephone were in each room. The television set
received all the commercial channels plus three closed-circuit channels
which were under the control of the internal Division of Information;
anything that should be seen could be piped into any room or group of
rooms. As soon as they were settled, the three men got together in the
living room which they shared. Captain Borg was not present. When Chet
entered the room, the other two were standing in its center talking. One of
them spotted him at the doorway.

  "Aha! Here's our C.A. I'm Carter Parret This is Quincy Smith."

   "Hi, fellows." Chet acknowledged the introductions. "What's the 'C.A.'
bit?"

  "Captain, acting. That's what you are, isn't it?" Carter said.

  "I haven't been assigned any rank," Chet replied.

  "Well, then, change it to read Condemned Astronaut."

   "What's that supposed to mean?" Chet did not think it was funny but
he did not want to start things off on the wrong foot. He felt a bit edgy.

  "What did they charge you with, selling secrets to the Russians?"

  "Maybe I missed something. What are you talking about?" Chet tried to
keep the impatience he felt out of his voice.

  "You didn't miss anything. That's the way they operate. They never
come right out and tell you what's bugging them. They just keep sliding
you here and there to keep you off balance and suddenly, phoom!"

  Chet could see that Parret was serious.

  "Hey, would you mind coming straight to the point and telling me in
English what you're talking about?"

   "Aw, he thinks they put him on a suicide mission because they don't
like him," Quincy said.
   "Well, how else would you figure it? What do you think the chances of
this operation are? I'll tell you what I think…"

   "Cut it! Cut it out right now!" Chet was angry. If this sort of thing was
allowed to continue, the mission would be aborted before it had a chance
to get started. "We picked a pretty risky way of earning a living when we
joined the Space Agency. Okay, so we're taking risks, but get this real
straight: there are no suicide missions in the United States Space
Agency." Chet wished he truly felt as strongly as he was making it sound,
but he was not going to come apart at the seams and he would not permit
anyone else to pull the rip-cord. For the moment, Parret subsided.

   Quincy spoke up. "I couldn't agree with you more. We picked the
Agency, they didn't pick us, and I feel honored to have been picked for
what may turn out to be a really tough job. Do you have any idea what
people will say if we can pull this one off? I'll tell you something, man"—he
was actually quivering with the intensity or his feelings—"our names will
be on all the history books of the whole world for all time."

   "Listen, Smith," Parret said unemotionally, "Vincent Adler is an old
friend of mine. That name ring a bell? He served with your unit for the
better part of a year. You know what he says? He says you're medal happy.
He kind of gives the impression that if they offered a medal for drowning,
you'd jump into the ocean."

   Quincy smiled coldly. "G-U-T-S. That's what it takes to stay in this
business, laddie. Have you ever thought of applying for a disability
retirement? I think you could prove your case. Right in there." He pointed
to the other man's midsection.

  "Knock it off, both of you." Chet decided it had gone far enough. He
knew that his crew had been hand-picked for the mission; their names
had not been drawn from a lottery. Under the circumstances, he did not
want to have to request a change of personnel, especially since time was so
short. On the other hand, if there was bad feeling between two of them, it
could become disastrous since their safety depended on close cooperation.

   "Now you listen to me and listen to me carefully," he said loudly. The
full force of his personality overwhelmed the two men and they gave him
their attention.

  "A great deal of hardware, a few million bucks and the future of two
hundred and fifty million Americans and a billion Asians are going to be
riding on the success or failure of just three men. I am one of those men. I
can tell you I am not interested in suicide and I don't want any medals and
I'm not prepared to undertake the hazards of this mission with two clowns
who hate each other. I want to know two things. First, you, Parret. Are you
willing and able to work with Smith?"

  Parret backed down. "Sure," he said, "no problem. I've got nothing
against him. I've got some gripes against the system but I can work with
anybody."

   "And you, Smith. Are you willing and able to work with Parret?"

   Chet wanted to nail the thing down tight.

   Quincy shrugged. "Why not? I just want to do the job I'm being paid
for. This is the one mission I've been preparing for all my life. If Carter will
work with me, I'll be happy to give him my best." He smiled; not quite as
coldly this time, but Chet did not get a feeling of warmth, either. Smith
faced Parret squarely and stuck out his hand. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll
withdraw that remark about guts if you'll take back my medals. Is it a
deal?"

   Parret shook his hand but their eyes avoided each other. "It's a deal,"
he said.

   "I just want you guys to know that you've just stuck yourselves with
each other because from now on there'll be no bickering between crew
members. Just to make sure, I'm going to make that my first official order
of this mission. I will remind you that this mission constitutes hazardous
duty; I call your attention to the fact that this mission started officially for
each of you this afternoon when you were assigned to this crew. And lastly,
I'm going to ask you to remember the penalties which are provided for
disobeying a direct order while on hazardous duty. I believe it starts at
around twenty years of hard labor and runs up from there," he concluded
dryly.

   The first crisis of Operation Immediate was over. Chet did not believe
that a good leader exercised his authority best by pulling rank. But he was
a good enough officer to know that the authority vested in him by the
director of the Agency in the name of the President was intended to be
used to ensure the success of whatever task he was assigned. Oddly, he had
so far not been handed a rank but he understood that he was to lead the
mission and he had reacted as a leader. Clearly Parret and Smith had
accepted his authority.

   Realizing that the utter lack of detailed information was causing an
uneasiness which bordered on alarm, Chet wisely decided to keep further
conversation away from the impending task, at least until they had
received more information and were put to work. So they talked shop until
dinnertime. They discussed their experiences and the lighter side of life in
the Agency but neither Venus nor the Russians were mentioned.

   They were finishing their meal when the summons came. They were to
report to Craggy's private conference room. Carter and Quincy jumped to
their feet instantly, anxious to follow the guide at once. Chet deliberately
finished the glass of milk he had been holding. He drank it slowly, wiped
his lips and placed his napkin neatly in front of him. Then he stood up and
joined his two crewmen by the door.

   "Ready, gentlemen?" he asked. It was a good performance. It helped
calm them down so that they did not go running down the corridors and
bursting into the conference room. They strolled casually to their
destination, each man containing his excitement as the guide found
himself having to slow down repeatedly in order not to get too far ahead of
them.

   Director Curtis was waiting for them at his place at the head of the
table. To his right were Captain Borg and another officer who displayed
the marking of commander's rank. The commander had a pantograph in
front of him. A piece of paper was in place on its glass surface. Anything
written or drawn on the paper, whether in black and white or in color,
would be projected on the wall. Craggy performed the introductions; the
commander's name was Pat Bradley. The astronauts took their seats on
the left side of the table, Chet sitting closest to the director.

  "Commander Bradley will give you the background material on
Operation Immediate," Craggy said.

   The commander coughed nervously and twiddled a pencil with the
fingers of both hands. From the paleness of his countenance and his slight
build, Chet guessed that he was a desk officer.

  "Gentlemen," the commander began. "I'm afraid some of this is going
to sound a little basic to you but I feel that we should start at the
beginning."

  A depiction of the solar system appeared on the wall screen, and the
commander began to go through orbits and variances until the director
coughed.

   "Ah! Yes." Bradley had got the message. "The synodical revolution of
Venus in its relation to Earth is what calls us all into this room. It has, in
effect, created Operation Immediate. In forty-three days, Earth and Venus
will be ninety days away from their closest. Mariner N-1 will take ninety
days to arrive at its destination. So if we launch in forty-two days, Mariner
will arrive at Venus one day sooner than the closest point and it will have
traveled wasted miles. If we launch in forty-four days, we will have missed
the closest approach by one day. So forty-three days is best. Now, a few
days one way or the other won't be fatal to the plan, but why not do things
right, eh? Of course, if we miss this launch, gentlemen, it will pass beyond
our reach for another nineteen months. That's a long time."

   The director took over. He nodded pleasantly to the commander, who
was industriously working out an involved mathematical equation. His
figures, spilling all over the orbits of Venus and Earth, were projected
clearly on the screen.

  "Thank you very much, Pat. I think you explained the urgency of
immediate action very well. Are there any questions, gentlemen?"

   He looked around the room.

   Chet spoke for the astronauts. "No, sir; not about the need for
immediate action. I think Commander Bradley made that quite clear. But
I would like to have some idea of the state of readiness of the equipment."

   Pat Bradley was totally immersed in his equation. Craggy slipped a
finger on the control panel at his elbow and flicked a switch, shutting off
the projection light.

  "Captain Borg has made the rounds; he's talked with the department
heads and I think he is prepared to give you a preliminary briefing on
what he has found out. Alex?"

   "At this point," Borg said, "I can only repeat what has been told to me.
In a few days I expect to be able to talk from my own knowledge. But this
is the way it seems to shape up. There are two complete systems ready:
N-1 and its backup, N-2. Since timing is so critical, they plan to have two
birds ready to fly so if number one develops a hitch, they'll let go with
number two.

  "Since it's going to be a manned flight and we have only one crew, we're
having the spare module installed in the space simulator room. You'll be
doing your training in the real thing… a big advantage."

   "Has this type module ever flown, Captain?" Parret asked the question
without any inflection.

   "Yes, it's been through extensive testing. It has been flown a number of
times with a straight hydrogen engine. Now it's been modified to
accommodate a nuclear-hydrogen power source. The major difference is
that instead of using large quantities of fuel and a matching supply of
oxidizer, you'll be utilizing hydrogen as a single supply of fuel. This will
give you more than twice the specific impulse. The Mariner N-1 command
module packs a thrust of over one million pounds. In electrical terms, that
represents five times the total usable power generated by Hoover Dam. As
far as the module itself is concerned, I am satisfied that it can be
considered fully tested."

   "Captain," Parret persisted, "has this type of power unit ever flown?"

    "The truth is that no nuclear-powered rocket has ever been used in a
command module. However, this power unit has been used very
successfully in several other applications and, even in its present hookup,
it has been extensively bench-tested."

   "Sir," it was Parret again, speaking quietly but insistently, "in view of
the fact that they're sending three live men up and not a bench, are you
satisfied that this is a desirable first use of this particular engine?"

   "I think it's quite clear that if we had all the time we wanted, we would
probably want to make an instrument shot before going manned. But yes,
I am satisfied."

  Creighton Curtis thanked Captain Borg for his exposition. "I realize,
gentlemen," he told the astronauts, "that there are hundreds of individual
questions which you would like to have answered. I can assure you that
there is an answer to every question… We are leaving nothing to chance.
But now, unless you have some questions relating specifically to what you
heard here today, I will close the meeting. Tomorrow will be your last day
of rest. As of the day after, you will be following a detailed schedule which
will cover fourteen hours per day."

   Chet had no questions. He was far from convinced that the operation
was as precisely planned as Craggy made out, but he was willing to reserve
judgment until he had experienced a few days of training. That is where it
would all come out.

   "If I may say so, sir," Quincy Smith said, "I feel that all of us should
stress the urgency of the situation. Whatever risks are involved must be
viewed in the light of the absolute necessity of carrying out this mission."

   Curtis was gathering up his papers and did not acknowledge the
statement either by look or word.

   "I have a question," Parret said suddenly, drawing the director's
attention.

  "Yes?"

   "Well, sir," Parret said smoothly, "I fully understand the urgency of the
mission; what I'd like to know, sir, is what percentage of success has been
determined for this operation?"

    A cloud passed briefly over the director's features. He paused, looked
deeply into the astronaut's eyes and measured his words carefully. "The
Agency has never officially or unofficially assigned a percentage of any sort
to any mission, whether manned or not. No countdown has been
completed until a consensus of success has been obtained. In other words,
if a so-called percentage of success were to be assigned, then each and
every launch, including this one, would be rated one hundred percent. Do I
make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir," Parret replied. "Thank you."

  Back in the living room of their personal quarters, Borg addressed
Parret: "Carter, I get the impression that even though you volunteered
you're not too happy with your assignment."
   "No, I don't claim to be happy," Parret said, "but I don't really think
that 'happy' is the right word. I'm never 'happy' or 'unhappy' about any
assignment. I'm an astronaut and I simply do what I'm told to. But I like
to ask questions because it helps me set my mind straight."

   Borg accepted the answer and was satisfied that there would be no
disgruntled astronaut ruining the mission.

  "All right, everyone, gather around." Borg suddenly became jovial. "I
have an announcement of great moment—promotions, Lieutenants."

   He pinned a silver bar on Parret's collar, then Smith's. Smiling, he
turned to Chet.

  "Astronaut Duncan, this double silver bar entitles you to the title and
pay of Lieutenant, Senior Grade. Warmest congratulations, good luck."




                           CHAPTER V


    More than half of the underground area occupied by the Space Agency
in the Santa Monica mountains was devoted to the training complex. It
was designed to reproduce as nearly as possible any situation which the
flight planners could conceive of. The command module of the
forthcoming mission, the sister to the one which would actually be used,
was installed in the complex. Its inboard fittings were exactly like the ones
the astronauts would be using during their months in space. Its windows
were removed and sophisticated television screens were installed in their
place. All the instruments, gauges and read-out meters were hooked into
the cluster of computers and servo-mechanisms which surrounded and
almost hid the module. Its attitude could be arranged to match any
needed position.

   When the astronauts were aboard and the hatch sealed, their module
could have been on a launching pad, or in earth orbit, or traveling through
space toward any preselected destination. They ran through every possible
exercise, were tested for any emergency. Training in the simulator went on
and on.
   The time factor was all important. Commander Bradley called it
timing; now Chet understood more clearly what he had meant. The
training chief would throw problems at the team. Each of the problems
had a solution, a series of actions which the astronauts could take to bring
things back to an even keel—if they had enough time. If they could speed
up their thinking and apply the solutions, they would come through every
test in good shape. Otherwise, they theoretically "died," just to prove the
point.

   The three members of the team spent so many hours in the training
module that they got to know it intimately. Its interior was not much
different from the type they had used for lunar missions. It was somewhat
larger and the instrumentation was more complex, but they all had
reached the point where they could, with eyes closed, lay their hands on
any desired switch or valve.

   Aside from training in the command module, the astronauts spent
many hours operating the training planetary landing vehicle. This would
be their means of touching down on Venusian soil. Even more important,
it was their means of leaving the surface of that planet and rejoining the
command module, which they would leave in a parking orbit. This
docking, at the completion of their mission, would be accomplished by
using the controls housed in the landing vehicle. Although Chet, by reason
of his rank, was scheduled to be at the main controls of whichever vehicle
they occupied, all three took turns at every station so that, in the event of
emergency, each could double for the other at any position.

   They also became thoroughly familiar with all the equipment they
would use: new motorized sleds, and the long gripping tools necessary
because the heavier suits made bending very difficult. They even had to
practice with the new food paste-packets, designed to be eaten in a
spacesuit, helmet and all. Since the astronauts were not taking a
mooncrawler, there would be no unsuiting at mealtime, once they were on
Venus.

   Navigation and communication absorbed much of their remaining
time. Sealed in the command module or the landing vehicle, they spent
hours talking to "Earth" with delays ranging from four and a half to six
minutes, to accustom them to the time lag. They familiarized themselves
with the five letter code they'd be using so that they were able to pick the
combinations they needed and decode the ones they received in the
shortest possible time.

   With just under a week remaining, Chet and Quincy and Carter felt
that they were as well trained as they were ever going to be. Which was
not to say that they felt supremely confident about the forthcoming
mission. They were well aware of the gaps.


When they were called to the final briefing, the whole thing was an
anticlimax. Although they each retained their private thoughts, the trio
had settled into the inexorable pattern; there was nothing that could be
added to their training. No questions were asked. What was known had
been told them. What was unknown could not be told them. It was that
simple. They were anxious to be on their way.

   Curtis and Borg and Bradley attended the session, as well as several
scientists and officers who would be manning the ground control
functions. Craggy was his usual distant, coldly efficient self. If he felt any
particular emotion as the final moment of this bold adventure rushed
toward them, he filtered it through his impenetrable outer mask. The
chief of the training complex presented a brief report which outlined the
course and pronounced the team ready and fit for action.

   At a nod from Craggy, Captain Borg rustled some papers and came up
with the announcement that the Cape was reporting all systems "green"
with no hitch expected. Lift-off was being planned right on schedule.

   The supply officer revealed that all equipment, fuel, food and
provisions, down to the last aspirin tablets and decongestion pills, were at
the Cape in the correct containers. These were even now being loaded and
stored in their appointed places.

   Craggy thanked them all for their reports and for a job well done, then
he delivered a short talk on the importance of the upcoming mission and
he expressed his confidence that all would go well and that upon the
return of the astronauts, the United States, indeed the whole world, would
be grateful that old-fashioned American guts and ingenuity had provided
truthful answers to the difficult questions of our times. Everybody could
sleep better at night knowing that science was pursuing knowledge and
not political gain; and now that nothing was left on the agenda and the
astronauts would be leaving for the Cape at once, he would bring the
meeting to an end unless there was something someone wanted to say. His
eyes had almost completed a circle of the table, having drawn nothing but
silence until Carter Parret's eyes met his. There was a brief pause. Parret
looked as if he was about to say something. Then for an instant he seemed
about to pass but finally his lips formed a little crooked smile and he said,
"Goodbye."


Within three hours, Captain Borg and the astronauts were landing at the
Cape, where they got their first look at the big bird poised on its launching
pad. It was a colossal structure that seemed to tower halfway to the
clouds. Its service gantry nestled alongside and fed it hoses and wires
while a beehive of white-coated workers crowded at its base. They stood
for a minute, taking in the impressive sight; you could take part in four
flights per year and train in between, but the first sight of your new
vehicle always took your breath away. And this one was the biggest ever.
They made a tour of the reinforced concrete bunkers which housed the
launching and tracking and communication crews and shook hands as
they accepted the good wishes of the men who would send them off. Via
closed-circuit television, they met and said hello to the fellows at Houston
who would be monitoring them.


They were called at four o'clock the next morning and informed that the
countdown was proceeding without delay and that the seven-thirty lift-off
would occur right on the button. They had breakfast and walked to the
suiting room. Nobody seemed to hurry, yet there was not an empty
minute: one step followed the other with quiet efficiency. Each man
received a copy of the launch plan and a heavy book containing the details
of the flight, a schematic of every piece of equipment and instructions for
meeting every conceivable type of emergency. Finally they were fully suited
and hooked into the portable support systems. Then they climbed into the
back of a special white bus which was used only for this purpose and
driven across the endless, empty concrete to the gantry—for reasons which
it did not care to divulge, the Agency had prohibited any public news
coverage. Agency cameramen recorded the proceedings without getting in
the way so the trio made a swift passage from the truck to the gantry
elevator. The three astronauts smiled through the thick plastic of their
helmets and waved acknowledgment to the workers who shouted wishes of
good luck, but they did not break stride. Everything went with a
mechanical precision which bespoke the years of training.
   The elevator lined up with the open hatch and extended a small
platform. Chet and then Carter, followed by Quincy, used this to climb
aboard. From the moment they took possession of the command module,
the three could not spare a single thought to the drama of the event.
Strapped to their bunks, they each had hundreds of tasks to perform,
gauges to read and record, instructions to receive over their headphones,
valves to position, needles to balance. Through it all the steady countdown
continued until one minute was left and everything was ready. And then
the minute began giving away its remaining seconds and the familiar
ten… nine… eight… sounded. This scene had been rehearsed so many
times that there was nothing new about it, nothing to get excited about.
Pure routine. And in a purely routine way, they received confirmation of
ignition and the cabin shook and trembled, causing their voices to vibrate
as they acknowledged the signal that lift-off had occurred.

   Only the doctors back near Malibu, monitoring the pulse and heartbeat
of the departing team, knew the tenseness and excitement aboard the
rapidly disappearing N-1.




                          CHAPTER VI


   They were in orbit, one hundred and seventy miles above Earth. Here
they made two complete revolutions to make sure that everything was
functioning and to make themselves more comfortable. They adjusted
their suit temperatures, made sure the module was properly pressurized
and answered a battery of questions thrown at them by ground control. If
a weakness could be ascertained anywhere, even a hint that something
might not be one hundred percent normal, the mission might still be
aborted and their return to Earth ordered. Parret looked keenly for any
sign of trouble. He could find none. Then they lay back and relaxed as
ground control activated the mighty nuclear engine and kicked them out
of orbit into their long main voyage.

   As the rocket shut off, telemeter readings checked their attitude, speed
and direction; they were right on course. Within an hour they had
stripped down to underwear and had put on loose-fitting coveralls. Then
they had their first meal. They called it lunch since their last food had
been breakfast, but from now on meals were whatever they called them,
and boring besides. Boredom, in fact, would be their constant enemy and
companion. No more than ten minutes out of every hour would be devoted
to the regular checks which were required. No more than eight hours a
day could be naturally used up in sleep. Checkers, chess and playing cards
were available as well as a number of other games; and there was a tiny
area called the "gym," which permitted some exercises, since muscle tone
would be important when the time came to lug all the heavy equipment
down to the landing area.

    The command module was never quiet. Several electronic channels
were in continuous operation, but the men were so used to the
arrangement that, unless they deliberately focused their attention onto a
particular sound, they were not even aware of its existence. One
improvement over previous flights was the tape recorder which had been
built in. Many hours of listening was available in light pop and classical
music as well as comedy and historical pieces. They decided to ration their
listening because many more hours of voyage existed than were packed
onto tape and they they did not want to play the tape over so many times
that they got sick of it. At this early stage of the trip, they were able to
receive commercial programs from home stations, both directly and by
virtue of ground control selecting a program which they taped and relayed
up.

  Even when nothing was coming through for them, the gentle hiss of the
open channels was constant. White noise was what radiomen called it.

   Quincy had just returned to the main control room from the first nap
enjoyed in space by a member of the Operation Immediate team, when a
startlingly loud signal was received. The incoming voice filled the cabin.

  "DMBVP… DMBVP… DMBVP…" it said over and over.

  The three men looked at each other and Chet reacted first. He reached
swiftly for the five-letter code book and it confirmed what he had thought:

  "DMBVP: use scrambler, channel 536, to receive urgent message."

   As Chet read out the translation, Carter made the adjustment on the
scrambler set and flicked its main switch. They could now talk to ground
control directly and confidentially.
   "This is Mariner N-1, Chet Duncan. Come ahead."

   "Chet, this is Borg. Am I coming through?"

   "Read you clear, Captain. What's up?"

   "We've got this one from Jodrell Banks. No confirmation from original
source but the Russians have sent something up. Looks like you're going to
have company on your trip."

  "All the way?" Chet's spontaneous reaction was one of pleasure.
Company of any kind in space seemed better than none.

  "We can't tell for sure, but that's what it looks like. You haven't seen
anything, have you?"

   "Not a thing. We'll look around and keep an eye on the long-range
scanner but it doesn't show anything at this point. What do you think,
Captain—are they shooting for Venus? Is it instrument or manned?"

   "Oh, it's manned, all right. That much we can tell you. Apparently
they've been parked. We're trying to latch onto them but right now we're
relying on Jodrell. It won't be too long before you're out of scrambler
range. We want to keep this down to a whisper until there's official word
either from them or from us. No point to letting them know what we
know. If you get any sign from them, use this channel back to us, if it's still
readable. If we have to talk in the open, we'll call them 'Little Flower,' got
that?"

   "Little Flower," Chet repeated.

    "Right. I'll get back to you as soon as we have something. Happy times,
all of you. Out."

   "Out." Chet switched off the transmit button.

   "Well, I guess that settles it," Quincy said cheerfully.

   "Settles what?" Chet asked.

  "Why, whether the Russians have been pulling a sham. It doesn't prove
whether they're right or wrong, but it sure tells us that they believe their
own story. They wouldn't be sending cosmonauts up otherwise."
   "Let me tell you what it proves," Carter broke in. "Absolutely nothing.
Zero. At this moment we're not even sure they're heading toward Venus. If
they are, they might be orbiting and returning without a landing. And if
they do land it simply means that cosmonauts, like some astronauts, are
not highly prized by the powers that be."

   "All we've got to go on is a guess," Chet said, "but if one guess is as good
as another, mine is that they'll be on the road with us. And my second
guess is that they'll attempt a landing."

   "How do you figure, Skipper?" Quincy asked. He was excited and
intensely interested in the development. It gave the operation new
meaning. They were not just on an exploratory mission. If the Russians
were up here, they were in a race. Chet frowned as he thought deeply.

  "Well, we know that this is the right time for a Venus shot, don't we?
And we know that our cosmonaut friends have a touch for the flamboyant.
You know, first to Sputnik, first man in space; now, maybe first on Venus.
Sounds just like what they might do. Only we beat them to it."

  "Beat them to it?" Carter snorted. "If you're right and they're on their
way to Venus, how can you say we beat them to it?"

   "What I mean," Chet said evenly, "is that they've had Venus on the
mind for a long time. I imagine when they sent their probe, they were
planning a manned shot as a follow-up. We weren't planning any such
thing. This was to be an instrument flight, remember? In forty-three days,
we converted it into Operation Immediate so even if we launched at the
same time they did, I'd still say we beat them to it."

   They argued back and forth for a while, discussing the various
possibilities, but no one could be sure because their scanners showed
nothing and until word arrived there was nothing definite to talk about. It
was not possible to search the vast skies in every direction with long-range
radar; although it could be pointed in every conceivable direction, its
main function was to sweep a cone-shaped area in front of them to make
sure the way was clear for their speeding module. The short-range
scanners created a bubble of security around them but it was a small
bubble, a mere few hundred miles thick.

   Captain Borg came through on the scrambled channel again. This time
it was not as loud, nor as clear. The scrambler used up too much of the
signal's energy.

   "This is Borg. Acknowledge, please."

  Chet activated his transmitter. "Right, Captain. Mariner N-1 reads
you."

   "Okay. It's official now. There are three of them in a big one. Could be
carrying landing vehicle but no Russian word on its objective except that
the target is Venus. Jodrell confirms they're out of parking and on their
way. Is that clear?"

   "I understand. The signal's kind of weak but we got you. Any
instructions?"

  "No change," Borg replied. "Just wanted you to know. From what we've
worked out, their course will keep them separated from you by four,
maybe five, thousand miles. We'll bypass the scrambler from now on but
we'll keep switching channels. Next transmission will be on 2573. Repeat
2573, got it?"

   "2573," Chet acknowledged.

  "Right. At the end of each transmission, we'll give you the succeeding
channel in code. At least we can keep them jumping. Anything new?"

   "All green," Chet said casually.

   "Fine. Then just stick to schedule and we'll keep you informed. Good
luck. Out."

   "Mariner N-1, out." Chet switched off the transmit circuit and tuned
into channel 2573.

   Now that their conversation was again private, Quincy spoke up. He
was smiling broadly. "Boy, have we got it made! Don't you see? Like Chet
said, they've been planning this one for a year, that's how important they
think it is. And we've got the jump on them. We'll set foot on old Venus
before they do."

   "So what?" Carter was not impressed.

   "The record book, man! First men to land on Venus: Chet Duncan,
Carter Parret, Quincy Smith. The Russians came in second. Get that? The
Russians. No names, because who cares who got there second?"

   "Aw, come off it." Carter's voice registered disgust. "Who gives a hang
about a record book? The point is that the people of Earth want to know
what Venus is like. Well, if the Russians want to waste a few cosmonauts
to find out, I say let them."

   "Now, now, children," Chet said, imitating a kindergarten school
teacher, "quarreling is a no-no. We've got a great big job to do and we're
going to do it like great big grown up men. Carter, why don't you sack out?
Quincy and I will play chess."

  "Good idea," Carter agreed.

  He was about to get up when an amber light winked, indicating that a
message was coming across on one of the standard channels. Carter
waited in place as Chet punched a button and twisted a dial until the
needle centered. There was a lot of static but a voice could be heard.

   "Mariner. Mariner. Mariner. Allo Mariner." Chet turned the
transmitter to the same incoming wavelength.

  "This is Mariner. Who are you?"

   "Aha! Mariner!" the voice expressed satisfaction, "This is Venera.
Leff-tenant-coll-onell Yarmonkine here. We are two days ahead of you but
welcome you to Venus Road in name of Soviet scientists. If we kicking up
too much cosmic dust, tell me. We change course for you."

  That was a direct lie and the astronauts knew it. Venera, the Soviet
module, was not ahead of them. It was not alongside them. It was
somewhere to one side and to the rear, further from Venus than the
Mariner was. Chet made sure that the conversation was being relayed
back to Earth.

   "Sure you're two days ahead of us, Lieutenant-Colonel Yarmonkine."
Chet's voice was tinged with sarcasm. "Perhaps we can be of assistance on
landing. Would you like us to set up a beacon when we get there, to guide
you in? Or aren't you figuring on landing?" Chet was probing for
information.
  "We land. Very good. We finish and take vacation before you find
Venus. Are ten men on Venera. Small army, hah-hah. How many you got?"

   "One for each of you, buddy." Chet was careful not to divulge anything.
"How would you like to play a game of chess by radio?" he inquired
brightly. A running game through space would give them something to do
and might also help them keep track of the Soyuz.

   "No chess." The answer was gruff as Yarmonkine dropped his attempt
to bully the astronauts with banter. "No games. Is serious. Out."

   The conversation was over. Chet closed down the channel. Whatever the
Russian's point was, he had not made it, only coming across with two very
inept lies.

   Parret's evaluation of the episode was to confirm his long-held belief
that the Russians were pathological liars and that their story about
conditions on the planet toward which they were all rushing was an out
and out fabrication In his view the Agency was foolish to take the Soviets
seriously and the astronauts were bigger fools to undertake so hazardous a
trip on such flimsy grounds.

  Quincy, as usual, saw the conversation as proof that the Russians were
anxious to be the first to land and were only trying to discourage the
Americans. He felt Parret's attitude was only playing into their hands.
They did not fool him, though. He was more determined than, ever to see
Mariner set down on Venus before the Russians could claim the record.

   Chet balanced the two views, allowing both men to give rational vent to
their personal feelings, making sure that disagreements did not
degenerate into outright hostility.

  Channel 2573 came to life, carrying the five-letter code. "GTREI,
AALMT, RCISH." This was repeated twice.

   "Well, I'll be," Chet said, as he found the combinations and read them
out. "It's a message to me." He looked up in surprise. "Listen to this, 'You
will immediately assume the temporary rank of Commander.' Number
three switches us to channel 1116." He made the necessary adjustments
after acknowledging receipt of the message.

  "Now what do you suppose that was all about?" He asked the question
impersonally, as if merely talking aloud.

   "That's easy," Carter responded. "Old man Venera, what is his name?"

   "Yarmonkine."

   "That's it. What was his rank?"

  "Leff-tenant-coll-onell," Quincy answered, giving a pretty good
imitation of the deep Russian voice.

   "That's what it's all about," Carter explained; "they don't want you
outranked. Lieutenant-colonel Yarmonkine will find that his counterpart
is Commander Duncan. Pretty neat. Somebody down there's been doing
some thinking. They even had it all set up in the code book." His tone of
voice conceded a note of respect.

   "Hey, how high up does it go?" Quincy asked with a grin.

  Chet turned the pages of the code book and smiled, "Sorry, fellows, but
captain is as high as it gets."

   "Aw, that's too bad." Quincy shook his head in mock dismay.

  "What would the Agency have done if the Russians had sent up a
general?"

   "To begin with, they wouldn't send up a general on a fool stunt like
this." Carter could not resist getting his dig in. "But if they did, I suppose
we'd get a clear voice transmission saying, 'Chet Duncan, you are now
Acting Temporary Director of the whole feather-headed Agency.' Well,
anyhow, congratulations, Commander. I guess it means extra pay for the
whole time. But remember, you've got to get back to collect it." He got up.
"It's nighty-night time," he said lightly as he made his way toward the
sleeping bunk.


Week after week, Mariner N-1, which had seemed so large at first sighting,
streamed through space toward its rendezvous with the planet next door.
As it pierced deeply into the mighty void, it seemed to get smaller and
smaller in relationship to the emptiness around it. The middle weeks
passed uneventfully. Ground control, which was now so far away as to
seem almost unreal, was receiving its information automatically and did
not bother the astronauts with voice communications. The module was
behaving beautifully. Less went wrong than would be experienced in the
average house with the same period. No fuse failures. No fluctuations of
temperature. Not even the burn out of a single tiny bulb.

    Because there was nothing to do and no way to alter the course of
events, the astronauts did the only sensible thing: they accepted the lazy
life and whiled away the middle weeks with exercise, games and tapes.
Their only relief from the internal boredom was provided by
Lieutenant-colonel Yarmonkine, who called to them once or twice a week.
He obviously wanted to keep track of them; perhaps he and his crew also
felt the loneliness of silent travel. In any case, there was no point to
pretending the Mariner was not there. By this time, Earth was abuzz with
the story of the great race. Details were sparse and given out grudgingly,
but the world knew.

   So, since there was no point to denying their existence, the astronauts
always answered the Russians' call. He was brusque and domineering,
always claiming to be far ahead of the Mariner. His attempted fraud was
not impressive, however, especially since he continually asked for their
position. Chet fenced with him, teasing him.

    "Why, Colonel," he said once in reply to the usual inquiry about
position, "all our instruments are out so, we have no idea where we are.
But tell you what. You give us your position and tell us how far back of you
we are and then we'll be able to plot our position. As soon as we do, we'll
tell you, okay?"

   This sort of fun usually resulted in the Russian breaking off the
conversation with humorless abruptness. But he always called back within
a few days. This had been going on for weeks before the cosmonaut
realized that he had never even received such minor information as the
name and rank of the man to whom he had been speaking.

   "Leff-tenant-coll-onel Yarmonkine, here," he started off one call. "I wish
to know your name and rank."

  "If you're planning to take us as prisoners-of-war," Chet replied,
keeping his voice even to mask the grin on his face, "I think, under the
Geneva Conventions, you're also entitled to my serial number. But,
Colonel, I don't think the twenty men you have with you will be enough for
the job." Chet had deliberately doubled the number which the Russian had
previously claimed in order to let him know that his bluff wasn't being
taken too seriously.

   "Is politeness, comrade," the Russian answered stodgily, ignoring Chefs
light-hearted approach. "Name and rank is simple courtesy, no?"

  "You're absolutely right, Colonel," Chet relented. "My name is Chet
Duncan, Commander, United States Space Agency."

   From then on, it seemed as if the Russian treated him with greater
respect. But there was no friendliness and Yarmonkine never gave up his
claim to be far ahead of the Mariner.

   As the middle weeks wore away and Venus began to loom large and
round, the boredom and mechanical routine evaporated. The flight plan
called for the Venus orbit to be achieved by remote control from Earth,
with the astronauts to override manually in the event of error or failure.
As a result, the trio began to spend many hours memorizing each figure
and every reading which should appear in sequence. They rehearsed and
discussed the procedure they would be following in the event it became
necessary to assume manual operation.

    Chess and checkers were put away with the other games and, as the
time neared and excitement mounted, the four-hour stretches of sleep
were not properly maintained. Rarely did any man sleep more than three
hours at a time; they could not bear to be away from the center of things
now that the mission began, for the first time, to assume proportions of
reality. Venus was there. Oh, it was there all right, shining as big and
much brighter than Earth appeared on their Lunar trips. The cloud bank
reflected more light than did the oceans and land masses of their home
planet. But what was beneath those clouds? Each man asked himself the
same question. That was what they were here to find out. During the last
week, the Russians did not put in a call to them. Parret thought it was
because they did not intend to land and did not want to reveal that their
flight plan called for a mere orbit. Chet guessed that the Russians were
probably every bit as occupied as the astronauts with preparations for
touchdown. Quincy agreed with Chet.

   On the day before the N-1 was scheduled to kick them into orbit around
the shimmering planet, high above the dense cloud cover, the astronauts
were fully prepared. They had just completed one of the few hourly checks
remaining to them and had eaten a quick meal when Parret looked very
quiet and thoughtful.

   "You know," he said, "I've been thinking. Since the landing vehicle will
be going down through the murk, there'll be no visual contact between it
and the command module. Since nobody knows what's down there,
wouldn't it make more sense if one of us stayed up here to keep an eye on
things? I mean, that way communication would be assured and, if it
should become necessary, a rescue attempt could be mounted."

   Quincy was onto him like a flash. "Whom did you have in mind?" he
asked with a blank expression. "Like, whom do you think it would make a
great deal of sense to leave up in the module?"

   Carter looked at him steadily without batting an eye. "I was not
suggesting anybody," he said. "I was not proposing a person; I was
presenting an idea. And I happen to think it is a good one. If you'd like to,
you can stay here, for all I care. I just think someone ought to remain
aboard."

   "What? The first guys in history to land on Venus and you figure I'm
going to stay cooped up in this tin box like I'm back at the training
section? Think again, buddy." Quincy was indignant.

   "Cool it, pal," Carter said. "First you beat my head in because you say
I'm trying to stay aboard. Then you kick me in the shins because I tell you
to stay here. Really! Can't I do anything right?" He turned to Chet. "How
about you, Skipper? Would you stay up here and keep an eye on us?"

   Before Chet could answer, Quincy exclaimed, "You know darn well that
the skipper is in charge of all operations on the surface, not to mention his
being chief pilot of the landing vehicle." He leaned in Chet's direction.
"You see, this is how it works. Someone has to stay behind because that's
the only thing that will make Carter happy. And we don't want him
unhappy, do we? Well, I won't stay behind and he knows that for sure. You
can't stay behind. Well, then, who does that leave, eh?"

  Carter turned pale with anger. His mouth opened but Chet cut him
short by tossing him a copy of the master flight plan. Cater had to reach
and fumble to catch hold of it.

  "If you care to look it up," Chet told him, "it says in there that three
astronauts will land on the surface of Venus. That means three. Which
includes all of us."

   Carter realized that Quincy's outburst had killed his plan so he moved
to retrieve his position. "That's okay with me, Skipper. I hope you don't
think that Smith was justified in what he said. I was only thinking that if
in your judgment my plan was worthwhile, you could override the flight
plan and—"

  "I'm not thinking anything," Chet answered with finality. "I just know
what the flight plan says. I know we agreed to it. I know nothing has
happened to change the plan. And I know that we are all going in."

  "Suits me," Carter said.

  "Great!" Quincy exclaimed.

   Peculiarly, although the changeover from the dull routine of the many
weeks into the bustle of the final days had caused a stir of excitement and
a loss of sleep, on the eve of their arrival all three had settled down to the
task which they had in hand. They all slept blissfully when their turn
came, and when the orbital countdown began they were at their places,
alert, relaxed and ready. The rockets roared, slowing their approach, and
orbit was achieved perfectly. The fellows looked at each other and smiled
broadly. They were about to embark on the most dangerous portion of
their mission. But the successful voyage which had covered twenty-five
million miles had been capped by a beautifully simple functioning of all
systems. So they forgot the dangers and were buoyed by confidence in
their equipment and the scientists of the Agency who had engineered their
exploration.

  "Okay, let's close her down," Chet said.

   Each man had a checklist clipped in front of him and they proceeded to
follow it down, throwing switches, opening and closing valves as they
went. They were fully enclosed in suits and helmets. Now they strapped on
the backpacks, plugged in and shut down the main cabin power. Solar
rechargers remained active, as did the instrumentation. Most important
of all, the radio repeater was brought to life. The landing vehicle would
receive and transmit back to Earth through the two-way repeater, which
was much more powerful than the portable equipment they would be
using. Everything ready, they rose from their couches and followed Chet
through the access tunnel and into the open hatch of the planetary landing
vehicle.

   Their intensive training showed in the manner in which they each went
to their appointed places and brought the vehicle to full life. The inboard
computer was checked against that of the command module and proved
to be in perfect synchronization. The automatic release mechanism had
been present to land them in the southern hemisphere. At last, the ready
switch was closed and the three men sweated out the pretaped countdown
which sounded; the computer was telling them how many seconds
remained before final release.

   They were off. Gently, smoothly, they separated from the module and
started their downward spiral. Chet, at the controls, integrated his
movements with that of the automatic machinery. At fifty-thousand feet
above the surface, he would be taking over as the automatic controls
released their duties to him. Down they came, nearer and nearer to the
blanket of clouds. Wisps scuttled by the large windows, white and misty.
Then they were in it and their windows were blinded by the pressing fog.
The white turned dirty and they were descending through a layer of brown
cloud which looked like the highly compressed smog of Los Angeles on one
of its worst days, only darker and deeper and almost endless. It was here
that they were first caught by the wind.

   They had expected wind, and Chet had at his disposal controls with
which to counteract a sideward force from any quarter. What threw him
completely was the fact that the wind seemed to be blowing almost
straight up at them. Not quite perpendicularly because even that could be
countered by adjusting the down-pointing retrorockets, but up from the
surface at a slight angle which caught them and tilted them and against
which Chet had no prepared defense. The howling force clawed at them
and blew them upward and to one side. Hastily throttling down the
retrorockets, Chet released a jet on the port side, hoping to push them
sideways and maintain the vehicle in balance. For a moment it appeared
that they might be tipped upside-down. That would be fatal. Landing and
takeoff had to be accomplished at right angles to the surface. In any other
position the landing vehicle would be like a turtle on its back: still alive,
but helpless to do anything but kick itself to a useless and weary death.

   Heaving this way and that, bouncing up and down, trying to get some
sort of control, no matter how thin, of the vehicle, Chet strained his
muscles and forced his drowning senses to keep whatever track they could
of the awful, crazy thrusts and leanings which he could not restrain.
Through all of this they were blind. Vertical, horizontal, north, south, east
and west could be detected only by instruments and there was no time to
read instruments and react to what they indicated. They could only hang
on, trying to feel the vessel and staying alert to regain control when the
opportunity occurred.

   Bouncing like a drunken yo-yo, they came through the lower level of
yellow-pink clouds and burst into the dusty clear. About a thousand feet
below them they could see the brown, cliff-strewn surface of the planet
Venus. They could give it no more than a glance but Chet found that a
visual horizon was a great help. Their descent was too rapid, the vertical
wind having been replaced by a force which swooped and fell on them
from every corner. He added retro-power to slow their fall and applied the
lateral jets in an effort to maintain balance. He did a remarkable job,
seemingly controlling the vehicle by the sheer force of his own aching
muscles. The last few feet, however, appeared to contain a freakish
vacuum caused by the rapidly shifting winds. Mariner fell groundward,
bounced high as it hit the surface at excessive speed, bounced again lower
as its momentum was dissipated and then, after a final shallow jump,
remained on the surface, still, but shivering from the strain and the storm
which howled against its skin.

   Chet sagged, exhausted, fighting for breath. He was painfully aware of
the gravity which tugged at his shoulders and threatened to buckle his
knees. Then his physical condition reasserted itself and slowly he pulled
himself together.

  "Happy landings," he breathed to his crewmates.

  "Well done, Skipper. Man, what a landing!" Quincy shouted.

   "Really great, Skip," Carter said. "We made it. You've got your name in
the old record book, Smitty. And now it looks like we can go back. We've
done our job."

  Chet needed a few more seconds to take command.

  "What do you mean, Carter?" he asked wearily.

  "Just take a look."
   Outside the fierce storm caused the clouds to boil heavily; dust,
pebbles, stones and small rocks were caught by the hurricane winds and
hurled like buckshot indiscriminately in every direction. The landing
vehicle swayed in the strong gusts. But Chet's attention was riveted on the
thermometer. The temperature outside was close to five hundred degrees!
The auxiliary thermometer registered the same.

  "See what I mean?" Carter said, matter-of-factly.

   "What are you talking about?" Quincy replied, his voice rising
hysterically. "That's what we've got the hardshell, powered suits for. That's
why they're refrigerated. We're not in the book until we set foot on the
surface. Let's go out there and get to work."

  "How long do you think you'd last out there, Quincy?" Carter sounded
remarkably soft.

   "Who cares?" Quincy shot back. "We're astronauts and we've been
given a job. We'll do it if it kills us. Right, Skipper?"

  Chet shook his head slowly.

   "I'm afraid not," he said. "We came to discover firsthand what it was
like here. Well, we've found out. It's as hot as our scientists have been
saying. The Russians were pulling a bluff and we caught them. I don't
know how long this vehicle will remain intact under these conditions.
We'll let the external scrapers gather some samples and we'll get some
atmosphere bottles going here and on the way up, through the different
layers. We should be able to blast our way straight up a lot easier than
landing; after all, we won't have to worry about impact. But that's it. I
think we've done what we set out to do."

   The geological samplers were retracted and the atmospheric samplers
were set to operate in tune with the sonar-type altimeter so that they
would collect and isolate puffs of Venusian atmosphere at stated altitudes.
It was clear that this would have to be a manual lift-off but they were
prepared for that. The technique would be to blast off, using every bit of
their puny power to climb above the heavy clouds. Once they were in the
clear and away from the destructive force of the winds, they could easily
locate the module by radar; they would lock it in and allow their
computers to bring them together.
  The landing vehicle was teetering dangerously by the time everything
was in readiness for the lift-off. It shuddered and swayed and the dust and
pebbles striking its outer layer made a horrible din. The astronauts
hurried through the last-minute details.

  "I'll give you a short count," Chet called out, "All set?"

  "Yep," Quincy replied. He was disappointed.

  "Let's go," Carter pleaded.

   "Okay. Three… two… one…" Chet ignited the rockets and slowly
increased their pressure. It seemed to take forever before their effect was
felt. Then one of its three legs lifted precariously. Chet anxiously increased
power; a particularly strong gust of wind now would tip them right over
on their side. Then another foot raised from the surface, and, after an
eternity, the third foot was clear and they could feel the vehicle clawing for
height. They had achieved a scant three-foot clearance when a tremendous
blast of wind hit them squarely on the side. They were swept laterally
across the Venusian surface; they remained upright but were otherwise
completely out of control. In desperation, Chet increased to full power,
which gave them just enough lift to clear a rock-studded ledge toward
which they were rushing at great speed. The rockets could make no
headway against the turbulence which seemed to blow from all directions
at once. They were pushed this way and that, never being able to attain a
height of more than eighty feet. Chet knew that the rockets were not
capable of a maximum sustained effort for very long; and, if they flamed
out, a sheer drop into the maelstrom would kill them all. The vehicle was
moving sideways from his right toward his left. About a hundred yards to
his left, he could see the ground sloped sharply upward, peaking out no
more than twenty feet beneath the landing vehicle's present height. From
there, it dropped away sharply, creating a sheer cliff. Chet could not see all
the way to the bottom of the cliff, but he formed an instantaneous plan. As
he passed over the edge of the high ground, he cut power to twenty
percent. The sudden decrease in thrust caused the vehicle to drop straight
downward and as soon as they had dropped below the edge of the high
ground, they were sheltered from the mighty blasts which had threatened
to wreck them.

   Gently, Chet increased thrust to slow their descent. He kept his eyes
glued on the altimeter, adjusting the throttle to maintain a slow, safe
approach. When they were ten feet from the surface, one of the vehicle's
legs struck some protuberance and the craft tilted wildly, then the other
scraped a rock, straightened them up and pushed them too far in the
other direction. Grabbing wildly, Chet shut off the rockets and they
dropped the remaining four feet. They hit with a thud, one foot coming to
rest on a small ledge while the other two found relatively level ground.
Instead of a ninety degree angle occurring between the rocket and the
ground, the inclinometer showed that the vehicle was leaning at an angle
of seventy degrees.

   In the sudden quiet, each man was alone with his own thoughts. Each
was grateful to be alive. With the high cliff sheltering them from the killer
wind, they would have time to inspect the craft for damage and to plan
their next move.




                          CHAPTER VII


   "What's on the schedule, Skipper?" Carter asked casually. He lounged
carelessly on his couch, one leg drooping over and resting on the floor.

   "Well, we've got a small problem, it seems." Chet's understatement
matched Carter's studied coolness. "Before we tackle such minor items as
figuring some way to take off at this crazy angle and inspecting the old
buggy to see if it can stand the strain, we will proceed with the risky
business of filing a full report. Quincy, you contact the command module.
Establish relay contact, check out the repeater and make sure that it's
functioning. While he's doing that, Carter, you put the whole thing into
five-letter code. Temperature, storms, aborted take-off, greenhorn
landing, the works. I'll write up my own synopsis and transmit by clear
voice. We'll take an hour out for inspection and that will give them time to
digest our report and get back to us."

    They all got to work; and in less than thirty minutes the channels had
been checked out and the messages were on their way. Chet ended his
with the announcement that they would take off following the inspection,
if possible, and establish direct communication from the orbiting module.
If the storm continued, or if the vehicle proved unable to take off, they
would keep ground control informed of their situation. Nobody aboard the
Mariner's landing vehicle was quite sure what that meant and none of
them wanted to think about it.

   Dragging the heavy powered suits from their stowage area, they helped
each other get into the awkward armor. Each joint was powered by a
small but powerful servo-motor which was activated by the pressure of the
man's limb from within. As an arm moved straight, back, left or right, it
pressed against the proper contact points; the harder it pressed, the
greater the energy which the appropriate servo-motor delivered. Thus, a
properly trained man could achieve motion roughly comparable to that in
an ordinary spacesuit although his actions would be slower.

    The vehicle's hatch was unsealed and drawn open and, gingerly, each
man climbed carefully down the steel ladder. At the urging of Quincy and
Carter, Chet went first so that his would be the first foot to touch the
surface. Quincy went next, followed by Carter. They walked a few feet
away; then they turned to look up at their craft. The ground was hard; the
landing feet of the vehicle made no penetration of its surface. What they
noticed at once, with great dismay, was that the tilt of the vehicle pointed
it toward the face of the great cliff which towered above them.

   While the others walked around, carrying out visual inspection of each
leg, Chet studied the angle in silence. Had the lean been in the other
direction, it might—he stressed might to himself—be possible to achieve
an angular lift-off, relying on the directional jets to straighten the attitude
once they were airborne. But this way, there was a better than even chance
that, before it could be straightened out, the landing vehicle would lift off
and go crashing into the cliff side. He stared long and hard at the vehicle
and the cliff behind it, burning every detail into his mind so that when he
was back in its cabin manipulating the controls, he would have an
accurate understanding of the margin available to him.

   "Hey, Skipper, take a look!" Carter's voice came through the earphones
and Chet looked for him. Carter and Quincy both stood on the small ledge
which supported the out-of-balance landing leg. This was the leg whose
raised position accounted for the cliffward lean of the vehicle. Chet walked
over, his suit humming and creaking as it powered his motion. As he
reached the ledge, Quincy jumped off to make room for him. Quincy
landed and crunched over onto his back as he lost his balance. His
teammates looked at him and, in spite of the seriousness of the occasion,
they could not repress a laugh as they watched his ungainly attempt to
regain his feet. It took an extraordinary coordination of arms, legs and
trunk to get the suit to lift its wearer to his feet. By the time he was afoot
and steady again, Chet had climbed up on the ledge and was peering at
that section of the leg to which Carter was pointing.

    Around its entire circumference, an ugly crack appeared. How deep did
it go? Was it a surface fault, or was the supporting leg nearly cracked in
two? Carter rapped the metal with his armor-clad knuckles. Chet did the
same, although it occurred to him that they were both acting like
housewives at a market who thunk a melon before buying it, without quite
knowing what to listen for. The rapping produced a loud clinking which
the microphones picked up clearly, but neither of them had any idea what
it meant. It sounded solid enough, and yet, would it continue to sound
solid right until the second it split in two?

   High above them, they could see the swirling dust of the great winds
roaring straight off the top of the cliff and plunging away into the
distance. Their earphones picked up an electrical crackling which they
took to be lightning somewhere in the vicinity, although they could see
nothing but the redness of the dust. Chet called them back into the
capsule. They left the cargo platform where it was so that it could be
hoisted back into its bay if they decided to attempt a lift-off.

   Back in the cabin, they sealed the hatch and pressurized the interior
before opening their faceplates and switching off their portable
refrigerating units. Before discussing the various possibilities open to
them, Chet moved to the main console where a light informed him that in
their absence a message had been received and taped. He positioned the
tape for replay and they all sat stunned as they listened to what ground
control had to say. To begin with, ground control simply acknowledged,
without comment, receipt of their message.

   Then it continued: "A report from Venera, Lieutenant-colonel
Yarmonkine commanding, whose point of origination was verified by
Jodrell, says that the Russian crew have effected a soft landing in the
southern hemisphere of Venus. The report describes tropical jungle
scenery, breathable air and habitable land. They say they are comfortable
without life-support systems of any kind and are currently conducting
tests. Please advise when possible. End of message."

  The astronauts stared at each other registering varied expressions of
angry disbelief.
  "Look at it!" Carter shouted, pointing at the thermometer dial. "All we
have to do is throw open that hatch as we are now and we'd be fried in a
couple of seconds! Those lying swine!"

  Chet did not attempt to stem the outburst. To the contrary, both he
and Quincy added a few choice thoughts of their own.

   They decided to divest themselves of the heavy armor in order to
conserve its power pack and they put on, instead, their softer spacesuits.
They left the helmets off for comfort. Carter sat at the communications
console and operated their radio direction finder; in a complicated set of
switching, he managed to lock onto the orbiting module and got it to
operate its own, more powerful receivers and direction finder. If they
could pick up the Russian signal, either finder was capable of exposing the
general direction of that transmitter. If they could both pick it up, then
simple triangulation would pinpoint the Russian signal base. Sensitive as
the equipment was, it could achieve nothing under the conditions which
surrounded the planet. The very sensitivity of the equipment was a
handicap amidst the electrical uproar caused by the storms. They received
static in every degree and varying volume, but nothing else.

  Carter switched off his own and the module's finder.

  "I'd like to get my hands on that Yarmonkine guy!" he exploded.

   "Right now we've got to make a decision," Chet said soberly. Then he
outlined what had been going through his mind. Even assuming that the
Russians had managed a soft landing in habitable country, and that was
assuming a great deal, the hard fact was that the landing vehicle was in
trouble. And the only way to get it out of trouble was to lift it off the
surface. Once aloft, they could rejoin Mariner and from there be in a much
better position to evaluate things.

   Even Quincy agreed that this made sense. He was not willing to
entertain a thought about returning to Earth but he could see that a
return to Mariner would be wise.

    The problem which faced them, as Chet explained it, was the lift-off. He
believed there was not sufficient room between them and the side of the
cliff to effect lift-off and a straightening maneuver before crashing into it.
It might be possible, but only if they could manage a slow, delicate lift-off,
a dangerous stunt in itself. And in that case, they would rise above the
cliffs protecting top and into the winds at a crawl which would leave them
at the mercy of the storm. They simply could not lift-off slowly, straighten
the attitude and accelerate sufficiently to stand a chance of bulling their
way through the winds.

   There was an alternative. They might try to reverse the sequence of
things. Suppose they started by employing the side jets, the ones in the
direction toward which they were leaning. This should take the weight off
the two legs which were on the ground, and place it on the one on the
ledge, leveling the vehicle. If, at this time instant, the main rockets which
had previously been ignited were to be immediately plunged to full thrust,
they might provide just the jackrabbit start needed to feed the vehicle into
the windstream with sufficient velocity to break through.

   "Sounds good," Quincy commented. "Tell you what— I'll handle the side
jets and when I get her where you want her, you kick in the main rockets."

    Carter remained pensive. "If we do it that way," he said finally, "the
cracked leg will be taking the added weight. As we start to straighten up,
if we do, the bad one will get the strain."

    "I know," Chet replied calmly; "that's why I think we should talk it over
before a final decision is made. You see, the danger of crashing into the
cliff is obvious. It's a known quantity. The other way solves that problem
but substitutes an unknown problem. Is the leg badly cracked? If it is, and
if it buckles, well…"

   "I don't think we have a choice, Skip," Quincy said. "After all, the cliff is
there. As you say, its a known quantity. What do you figure our chances
are of getting away without either crashing it or being windblown head
over teakettle?"

   "Frankly, no better than ten percent. Fifteen at the outside."

   "That's what I mean. If the leg holds, what do you figure our chances
are of getting off?" Quincy pressed.

   "If the leg holds, I'd say our chances are excellent."

   "Eighty percent?" Quincy urged.

   "That's reasonable."
   "Well, there you are."

    "I vote with Quincy," Carter said. "Lean in to her and go for a vertical
lift-off."

   "All right, then," Chet continued, "let's get with it. Quincy, you handle
the side jets, I'll take the main rockets. We'll try to keep the strain down to
a minimum. I'm not going to wait until we're at ninety degrees. Quincy,
keep your eyes pasted on the inclinometer. As soon as it marks eighty-five
degrees, I'll hit the rockets and take over full control from you. We won't
be vertical, but we'll clear the cliff and still have maximum acceleration."

    It took a few minutes to get their helmets in place and their suits
pressurized. When they were ready, they strapped themselves in position a
little tighter than usual and Chet gave a short countdown. He ignited the
main rockets, keeping them at minimum power as Quincy applied the side
jets.

   The landing vehicle came to life and the astronauts could feel it
trembling as it responded to the power. Almost imperceptibly, the two
good legs released their touch with the ground and the inclinometer crept
from seventy to seventy-five degrees. Carter, who was hard-headed and, he
thought, devoid of superstition, crossed his gloved fingers. He could do
nothing else and already he could taste the sweet sensation of rejoining
the Mariner and heading back home.

   When the needle had just passed the seventy-nine degree mark, a
violent shudder swept the craft; it was followed at once by an awful crack
which echoed through the cabin and made the earphones shriek. The
vehicle started to fall on top of the crumpled leg. Chet and Quincy reacted
almost instantly; without prearrangement or even time for a shouted
order, they both did exactly the right thing. Quincy shut down the side jets
and Chet applied full power to the main rockets. The two good legs fell
back to make contact with the surface, momentarily straightening the
vehicle; it took a couple of long agonizing seconds for the main rockets to
take hold. In that time, the craft once again tilted wildly toward its
missing leg so that as the thrust began to exert itself, the inclinometer was
registering a tilt of forty-five degrees; this time away from the cliff.

   Throughout the confused wobbling, first toward the wounded leg, then
away from it and finally in a sickening swoop back toward where it first
stood, Chet fought to maintain a grasp on the changing conditions. As the
main rockets began to impart motion to the craft, it was falling even
further and added speed at this point would cause it to go whistling over
the surface of Venus in an almost horizontal plane. Over this rugged
terrain with its impossibly high crags and unexpected outcroppings, such
blind, high-speed careening would be suicidal. Reluctantly but without
hesitation, Chet killed the power as all three braced themselves for the
crash.

   Once the power was shut off, the landing vehicle fell the rest of the way
gracefully but heavily. It came to rest on its side with a great noise, like a
sigh, sweeping from stem to stern.

   Untrained men, realizing the enormity of the disaster, might have
cowered in helpless fear, awaiting the inevitable end powerlessly. But as
soon as the landing craft had come to a stop, the astronauts unbuckled
themselves and were on their feet. Using the side upon which they had
come to rest as their floor, they began to organize things. The hatch was
only a few feet above the surface of the ground and Quincy volunteered to
undertake an outside inspection. Together they erected the portable air
lock around the hatch, then they packed him into his armor and sent him
on his way. While he was gone, Chet and Carter surveyed the interior.
Their main electrical power was intact; the hull had not cracked and was
capable of maintaining full pressure and air-conditioning. Quincy called
to them to try the cargo bays. Carter pushed the switch and Quincy
reported that the bays had opened properly. The platform could not be
lowered in its usual way, but he instructed Carter to release the top cables
only, very slowly. This caused the heavily laden platform to fall away at the
top, as if it were hinged. When it was almost parallel with the ground, he
ordered the lower cables to be paid out and after a period of careful
jockeying, he announced that the equipment was now at ground level and
available for use.

   When Quincy rejoined them, they pooled the results of their
investigations. So far, not one word about the disaster had been uttered;
there was not one statement of dismay or fear. That would come later. At
the moment they worked efficiently, with the care of scientists. The first
order of business was communications. Quincy reported that of the four
main antennae, three were in good shape and appeared operable.

  Chet tried, and found that he was able to make contact with the
module. Then he activated the repeater and called direct to ground
control. They all knew that the electrical power reserves on the landing
vehicle were almost depleted. They were not meant to be used
continuously over prolonged periods. A relatively short hop down to the
planet's surface would ordinarily have been followed by a shutdown of
power while explorations were underway. Then a short upward journey to
rejoin Mariner would end the call on its power supplies. Mariner, with its
huge solar batteries, was capable of recharging the landing vehicle almost
indefinitely but, of course, it had to clasp it to its bosom to do so.

   Luckily, they were able to raise ground control almost at once and Borg
himself was on the horn immediately. It was reassuring to hear his voice
as they talked back and forth in delayed spurts. Curtis was also in the
control room and, as soon as their report was in, he and his staff began a
detailed study of it while Borg continued the conversation.

    Captain Borg asked them to stand by and transmit a special signal
when the command module was directly overhead. Chet tracked it and
sent the signal as requested. In a few minutes Borg was back to them. He
was all business. He did not waste time expressing sympathy or regret. He
let them know that the best opinion of the Agency experts was that
attempts at salvage would be useless. Under the conditions, repairs were
not feasible. The usual baling-wire and matchstick ingenuity of Americans
was no match for the overwhelming difficulties which surrounded them.
Chief among these was lack of time. On the other hand, things were not
hopeless. There was still an escape route.

   The Russian signal had been triangulated and was now coordinated
with that of Mariner, which had revealed the position of the crippled
landing vehicle. The Russians were still reporting livable conditions and
their position appeared to be not too far from where the astronauts were
located. The best guess was that they were no more than a hundred miles
apart.

   Borg supplied the coordinates which should enable the astronauts to
locate the Russian base. And the final order, repeat, order from the
Agency was to the effect that the astronauts must abandon their vehicle
and make their way overland to the Russians. One last note: if the
astronauts should by some unlikely chance find that the Russian signal
base was actually unmanned and transmitting prerecorded information,
they were to attempt to interfere with its transmission and substitute
their own.
   "At the end of this," Borg's voice went on—he spoke slowly, distinctly,
and appeared to have difficulty controlling the even flow of his words, "it
will be repeatedly transmitted several times on tape. We are all expecting
to hear from you when you have joined the Russians. Good luck and best
wishes."

  There was a click and the repeat tape started the whole message over
again from the beginning. Chet turned it off. They did not need it.

   "Well, how do you like that?" Carter was simmering " 'Goodbye, fellas.
Don't call us, we'll call you. Just go die someplace.' Man, that's about as
chicken as you can get. They didn't even ask for our opinion. Borg signed
off that way because he didn't want to listen to our side of things. Well, we
can just call him right back and tell him that we are not complying with
his order, repeat, order, jazz."

   It was only now that first reaction to the disaster began to seep out of
the men. Nobody had a good answer to the predicament they were in.
They could not undo events and although they might have admitted to
themselves in a quieter moment that the Agency was right, they did not
like anything about the situation. Nerves were short and tempers tight.
Each man reacted according to the way the abrasive events rubbed
against his personality.

   "Oh, you're beautiful!" Quincy looked pityingly at Carter. "Go ahead,
call them back and tell them you're not going to obey orders. Tell 'em
you're much too important to obey orders. And then tell them that you're
going to stay right here until you grow wings so you can fly home like a big
fat bird."

   The two were at it again and they stormed and ranted at each other
with more vigor than ever before. Carter was quite serious about
remaining where he was. He was not making much sense because he had
no clear idea of how that would help his cause. He could survive only for as
long as the power continued, and that would not be for long. Chet tried a
couple of times to inject a thread of reason into the argument but neither
Carter nor Quincy were ready to listen to him. Now that Quincy had some
direction in which to unleash his pent up energy, he wanted to be off and
away in a headlong rush for the Russians. He claimed that they could
make it in an easy three or four days, although he gave no details as to
how he had arrived at that figure. When pressed as to his own plans,
Carter blustered that they would be much better off trying to right the
fallen vehicle. If they suited up and used the power supplies attached to
the motorized sledges, he argued that they could last for three weeks; in
that time, surely they would be able to find some way to right the craft
and then they could be away.

   When they could make no headway against each other, and the first
rush of ungovernable temper had been spilled, Chet took over firmly.

    "Let me tell you how it's going to be," he said in a tone of voice which
let them know that he was not prepared to argue. "We can't stay here for a
number of reasons but most of all because our orders call for us to make
the Russians' base. Contrary to what you may believe, Carter, the Agency
would like nothing better than to have us return safe and sound and
triumphant."

  "Well, what if we do get there and find an unmanned signal-module?"
Carter persisted stubbornly. "What do we do then?"

   "That's a chance we'll have to take," Chet replied, "because we have no
alternative. This Colonel Yarmonkine was on our tail all the way across.
That much we know. I believe they landed somewhere. Whether they're
telling the truth about conditions, I don't know. But I believe they're on
the surface and our only chance is to find them."

   Then Chet turned his attention to Quincy who, seeing the skipper
siding with him, seemed anxious to dash out of the hatch and make for
the Soviets at a run.

  "Do you believe there is a manned Russian base on Venus?" he asked.

   "Of course!" Quincy answered with great conviction. "But even if there
isn't and we have to die, we might as well go in a great cause. If we find an
unmanned signal station and show them up to be frauds, who is the world
going to remember? Us or them? I say, let's go."

   "Will you get off this dying kick!" Chet snapped irritably. "I'm not
talking about anything but completing the job and returning safely. Right
now the Russians seem to be the answer. But let me give you an idea of
what we're up against."

  He crawled over to the chart table and extracted a chart which
contained nothing but a large circle overprinted with longitudinal and
latitudinal lines. Taking a pencil with him, he returned to the two
teammates. Consulting the records he had been making, he explained,
"This empty circle is all we really know about Venus. It isn't much but we
do know that we're here," he marked a spot in the lower hemisphere, "and
we also know that the Russian signal is coming from just about here. Now
all we have to do is get from here to there. So we're a bunch of guys who
just got through making a twenty-five million mile trip, and all we've got
to do is travel a measly hundred miles."

  "That's exactly what I've been saying," Quincy agreed.

  "Not quite," Chet put him down. "How do you propose we get there?"

  "Why"—Quincy looked surprised—"we've got the motorized sleds,
oxygen, food, powered suits. We use those, what else?"

   "Gung ho, just like that," Chet said scornfully. "What I meant was, how
do you propose to navigate those measly little hundred miles. Got any
idea?"

   Quincy glanced at his commanding officer as if questioning his sanity.
"How? We take that little piece of paper you're holding. We plot a course.
Like a straight line because we don't know what obstacles lie in the way.
We move along until we have to make a detour. Then we plot our detour
and go around whatever it is. We get back on course and keep repeating
the same thing until we're there."

  It must have seemed remarkably simple to a man who was used to
navigating across the vast reaches of space.

   "I see." Chet acted as if he had never understood the principles of
navigation. "But how will we know if we're following a true course? The
sledges don't have computers on them, you know."

   "You don't need a computer, for heaven's sake, to take you across one
hundred miles. So it's strange country. Give me a sextant and a compass,
even a small one, and I'll bring you in right on the button. Provided, of
course," he hastened to add, "your coordinates are right in the first place."

   "But Mr. Smith," Chet continued relentlessly, "what is your compass
going to do? Let's suppose you had a real big one, what would it tell you?"
   "Aw come on, Skip." Quincy began to sound a little impatient with the
game. "You use the compass as a bearing on magnetic nor—oh my
goodness!" He broke off abruptly. He had seen the light and looked
sheepish.

  "Yes?" Chet urged him on.

   "Venus has no magnetic north!" he blurted. "At least, not enough to
activate a compass."

   "So let's skip the compass," Chet suggested, "you've still got your
sextant. You won't lose the button if you use your sextant, will you?"

  "There's no sun," Quincy said miserably.

   "And no stars," Chet rubbed it in, "so our job's going to be a little
tougher than that. Unless somebody has put up some signs, we're going to
have to rely on ourselves for navigation."

   Now that everybody understood the problem, Chet laid out the solution.
"To begin with, we'll dismantle the gyrocompass and install it on one of
the sledges. To keep it spinning, we'll have to use up some of our electrical
reserves but once we've set it due north, it will keep pointing there with
pretty fair accuracy. But we've got to have a back-up system. Anybody
have any ideas?"

   The way Chet approached things invariably softened Carter's outlook.
His initial fury was always cooled by Chet's matter-of-fact reasonableness.
He was drawn into the discussion. "I know one way, skipper. It's a drag
but I think it'll work. If we took an accurate first sighting on north and
then plotted our rate of progress we'd know how far we had gone when we
hit the first obstacle. Then we would figure an angle of deviation which
would get us around the obstacle, and plot it. We keep strict record of our
speed and the time traveled, and it would not be difficult to plot a course
which would bring us back to the original one. A watch and a protractor
would be all that we'd need to know when to make the zag and when to
make the zig."

   "That seems awfully old-fashioned," Chet protested. It was, of course,
the exact procedure he had in mind.

  "No, Skip, it would work!" Quincy urged. "One of us would have to be
detailed to keep track of speed and time, but if we kept an accurate
record, we'd make it."

   "Then that would provide our back-up, wouldn't it." Chet brightened
visibly. "We could check the gyrocompass against our recorded progress
and between the two we should be able to plot a fairly reliable course."

   They were both so anxious to convince him that they became partners.
Chet was relieved they had united and now the details could be attended
to. The cargo platform contained three sledges. On a trip of this scope,
facing totally unknown hazards, Chet decided that only one sledge would
be used. The power units from the others were transferred to the one they
would be taking. The gyrocompass was installed and supplies were packed
aboard and strapped down.

   When they were through, the sledge was overloaded but they all agreed
that one sledge would make the trip easier. It was, after all, powered only
in the sense that a hand-held lawnmower was powered. One did not have
to push it or pull it directly, but it required deft manipulation. It could run
away, or bog down or, worse yet, it could perform an agonized backroll
which would require the combined strength of the three to overcome.

   On a rotation basis, one man would wrestle with the sledge, one would
be entrusted with the vital record-keeping and the other could merely
trudge along, picking up the pieces which needed picking up, putting
them together, and thinking. They would all be asked to contribute
physical energy to the trip but each, in turn, would be given an
opportunity to think. It could turn out to the the most vital function of the
undertaking.

   So, bit by bit, the trip was put together. Chet noted with satisfaction
that the preparation called his crewmates' attention to the job at hand.
There was no bickering over philosophies or plans. The conflict between
the two was resolved by the work it took to prepare for the next leg of their
odyssey in space. He knew the truce was a temporary one but he couldn't
waste time in trying to predict the next crisis. They were cooperating now
and things were going forward. His acting as referee as well as
commanding officer had one side effect which even Chet was not able to
understand fully: it kept him so busy that he had no time to consider his
own position. And this was more merciful than he knew.
                         CHAPTER VIII


   Anywhere on Earth, the trio clumping along in their powered suits
would have appeared as giants: huge robots who moved in a human, yet
robot-like manner. On Venus they felt like dwarfs. Quincy could not escape
the thought that he was, in fact, a very close relative of a crab—the armor
on the outside, the soft stuff inside.

    Carter, who had drawn the first turn at sledge-handling, was too
occupied with his labor to turn his mind to anything but the physical task.
It took a fine sense of coordination to make the suit work smoothly.
Maneuvering the sledge was a tricky job, too. The combination was
possible only because this fine sense was one of the qualities all astronauts
had to possess in order to be accepted; and each had been trained since
his first day with the Agency to bring those skills to their peak.

   As they started off, Chet assumed the navigational chores. It was this,
more than anything else, upon which their lives depended. No one spoke
of it in explicit terms because it was too important to trust to words, but
they all understood that they had set out to find the Russians or perish.
Perhaps both, for if the Russian base was unmanned, and their area
uninhabited, nothing could save them. But if they could not locate the
Soviets, then it would make no difference whether Russians, or oxygen, or
cool temperatures existed on Venus. As a final, crushing blow, failure to
arrive at their destination would mean not just a loss of life, but a
complete waste because then the Russians claims would not be tested.

   Nobody spoke of these things as the Venus trek began because no
purpose could be served by concentrating on the depressing aspects which
could not be helped, but these thoughts lurked beneath the surface of the
three minds. What the team needed as it took the first step of its
desperate journey was a break. Something in their favor. Like ancient
navigators embarking on unchartered waters, their spirits sought the
reassurance of some sign of good luck. And they got it.

   What pleased them and brightened their morale was that their plotted
course led them away from the towering cliff. Had they been faced with
that forbidding obstacle before they were properly on their way, their
courage would have been cruelly tested because it was obvious that they
could not climb straight up such a cliff. And with the primitive means
available to them for navigation, a detour at the outset might have caused
them to become hopelessly lost.

   As it was, their course took them across an area which, from a great
distance, appeared to be a plain. It turned out, however, to be unlike any
plain they had ever encountered on the moon or anywhere else. It was
almost impossible to find six square inches of ground which were level.
There were no high hills or giant outcroppings to disturb the eye, but the
surface was rough and stony and crevices opened which were deeper than
light could penetrate. They could look into them and not be able to tell
how far down the crack went. Most were narrow enough to be stepped
across but even these had to be carefully tested at the edges to make sure
that the heavy sledge would not cause a cave-in and get trapped.

    Some of the fissures emitted wisps of smoke so that a haze hung low
near the surface; it was these wisps of smoke which brought the
realization that the storm had abated. Chet smiled when he first became
aware that the smoke was not being blown about but swirled lazily not far
from its point of origin. He called Quincy and Carter and brought this
second piece of good luck to their attention. They looked back at the high
cliff which was now some distance behind them and noted that the great
sweeps of dust were no longer spewing off its edge; but they could not
spend too much time absorbing the good news. They had reached an area
where the cracks grew wider and ran in every direction. Many were too
wide to be walked across and some were yards wide.

   When they came to a crevice which was too wide to be straddled, they
looked left and right in order to determine in which direction it narrowed.
Chet laid a piece of rope on the ground to indicate the direction in which
they had been traveling; then he waited while Carter and Quincy took the
sledge down to the narrow part, crossed over and made their way back
again until they were opposite him. Finally, they would point the sledge in
line with the rope and check the gyrocompass to make sure it read the
same as it had before the detour. When this was done, Chet would pick up
the rope, creak down to the narrow point and make his own crossing. This
procedure was followed every time they came to one of the wide fissures. It
was time-consuming and tiring but it ensured their remaining on course.

   Every hour, they would change jobs; one hour of navigating, one hour of
sledge wrestling, followed by one hour of walking and thinking. They kept
conversation to a minimum simply to conserve their energy and to allow
themselves to concentrate on their work. It was while Quincy was at the
"think" position that he suddenly shouted, "Hey!"

  Both men stopped in their tracks and turned cumbersomely to look at
him. They saw nothing out of the ordinary.

   "What is it?" Chet called into his microphone.

   "I've had this funny feeling and now I know what it is," Quincy
reported.

   "What?" Chet asked.

   "I'm hungry!" Quincy said plaintively.

   Carter, who had been tense and anxious, exploded into laughter.

   "Is that all?" He grinned. "I thought you'd seen a two-headed monster."

    Chet surveyed the area and saw two large boulders about a half mile
ahead. They were leaning into each other, creating a rough arch. "Let's
make it to those rocks," he said. "We'll take a break there; in case we need
it, they'll provide shelter." He was mindful of the fierce storm which had
greeted their arrival.

   Because of detours, their zigzag route covered the half mile in thirty
minutes. It occurred to Chet, but he did not mention it to the others, that
they had covered half a mile at the rate of one mile per hour. They would
have to do much better than that. They left the sledge pointing in the
correct direction, removed some food, and then walked over to the
boulders and sat beneath the arch. It did not take long to push a couple of
tubes of pasted food and one of water into their mouths. As the
nourishment began to take hold and new energy coursed through their
bodies, they rested and talked, formulating plans. Finally Chet announced,
"Before we start off again, I'd like to try the radio and see if we can pick up
any sign of the Russians. Maybe we can draw a bead on them."

   The little rest, their first on Venus, came to an end. They got to their
feet and creaked their way over to the waiting sledge. The radio produced
nothing. If there were any other human beings on Venus, the radio could
not pick up evidence of them. Distant lightning produced ear-crackling
static. Chet plugged his earphones directly into the receiver circuit and
almost got his eardrums shattered as a result. He unplugged hastily and
listened to the remainder of the effort through the microphones on the
outside of his helmet. The loudspeakers on the sledge recorded nothing
but static. So they took their positions, Quincy at the sledge, Carter
navigating and Chet "thinking," as they started the hike. They reset their
watches to indicate that this was their afternoon stint, establishing time
as they were accustomed to it.

   For the next two and a half days, they maintained a rigorous schedule
with efficient regularity, traveling for twelve hours a "day." Chet estimated
that their forward progress had almost doubled to almost two miles per
hour, and he was satisfied that they were doing as well as possible.

   Although the ground grew rougher and rockier than it had been, the
fissures appeared to be diminishing. They spent less time marching
parallel to wide crevices, seeking a crossing, and this was good as it
conserved their energy and their precious power packs. On the other hand,
they had to do more looping around rocks and boulders which were now
strewn in their path. These maneuvers did not take up as much time, nor
did they waste power in the same manner as the long detours, but the
almost continuous need to turn this way and that greatly aggravated the
navigator's task. Although they all took turns at navigation, Chet kept a
close eye on this particular task no matter who was charged with its
function. He knew that if they strayed from the course they were done for.
As the commanding officer of this expedition, he took it upon himself to
oversee this most vital duty. He did not, however, give up his regular turn
at sledge-handling.

   Chet kept track of time and made sure that a schedule was maintained.
Ten-minute breaks, lunchtime, dinner and camping for the night were all
done in accordance with his watch. The biggest burden, by far, was none
of these; what made him sometimes feel that his temper must explode was
the ceaseless need to ride hard on his teammates. In opposite directions.
He felt as if this might tear him apart. Quincy had to be constantly
restrained; when a ten-minute break was called, he would argue that there
was no need to pause. Was anyone so weak that he could not go on for
another few hours? Unnecessary delays bothered him. Meals could always
be postponed and the night camp put off because, according to him, they
were marching toward glory and should lose no time achieving the
immortal feats for which they were destined. Survival was not the
important thing; it was the record book which counted.

   Quincy's attitude created a frustrating problem because Chet found
himself agreeing with a great deal of what the glory-seeker said, but never
for the same reasons. Thus his attempts to keep Carter in line were
hampered. Carter grew moody and sullen, muttering incoherently to
himself. Time and again, Chet would pick up some words in his earphones
and strain to detect whether it was some broadcast coming in from the
distance or whether one of the astronauts was saying something to him.
From the mixture of grunts and groans and half-spoken words, he came to
realize that Carter was talking to himself. At times he seemed to be
playing the part of the leader of the mission. His arms would jerk and he
would point to some rock, half-hidden in the murk, or to a particularly
dense billow of smoke and caution his companions against these phantom
beasts which had been sent to destroy the expedition. Occasionally he
would mumble some order which indicated that he was about to lead an
attack against the gathering pack and kill them before they had a chance
to close in. Suddenly he would lapse into a whimpering, whining apology
for having intruded onto their rightful property. He begged the beasts to
understand that he personally did not want to be here but that the other
two had forced him to come along when he really wanted to be back on the
spaceship, heading toward home. He promised that, if given time, he
could persuade the others to join him in a peaceful return to Earth.

   None of this was spoken clearly or in logical sequence but Chet was able
to recognize the gist of what was going on. Apparently Quincy was totally
oblivious to what was happening for, during their rest periods or at meals,
Carter spoke rationally although he continued to argue that the effort they
were putting forth was useless. It was at these times that Chet wished
Quincy would shut up. Chet tried to get Carter to understand that their
labors were far from useless.

   He insisted that their chances of survival were really quite good
provided they did not waste their energy on fanatical rushes. He did not
go along with Quincy's do-or-die ideas and felt that they should husband
their resources and continue an orderly march. Then, even if they should
face ultimate disaster, and he made it quite clear that failure was a
possibility, their lives would not be spent in vain. Every step of their
journey was being recorded and future astronauts would some day find
these records and add them to the store of knowledge which in some dim
future day would enable mankind to know his universe.
   Quincy kept agreeing enthusiastically, going way beyond anything Chet
had been expressing, and he would wave the glory flag at them, urging
them to plunge forward to victory or death. He gave the impression that,
somehow, death might even be the more desirable end, for it would only
magnify the victory.

   During lunch on the third day, they became aware of a change in the
wind which had been sweeping in on them from the four points of their
useless compass. The dust and tiny pebbles which had been coming at
them from left and right, front and back, began occasionally to rise
straight up toward the lowering clouds. It did not spiral upward as if
caught by isolated whirlwinds; instead it rose straight up in a column.
Between breakfast and lunch, they had noticed that the ground which they
were passing over had taken a slight slope upward. The haze had deepened
and the line between the ground and the overhead clouds was confused
and indistinct. Although their immediate surroundings were easily seen,
and the territory to their rear was still reasonably clear, the combination
of haze and rising dust limited their forward visibility to something less
than a mile.

   They ate in unaccustomed silence and although Chet felt that the quiet
might herald trouble, he was relieved to be able, for once, to take
nourishment and rest without experiencing another of the
nerve-shattering arguments. He finished his uncomplicated meal quickly,
checked the log to make sure that their progress was duly recorded, and
stretched himself out full-length on the hard ground. He was tired and
closed his eyes. When he opened them moments later the roiling cloud
cover seemed much lower than before. He powered himself to a sitting
position and looked around. Quincy was leaning against the sledge,
staring moodily at the ground. Chet checked his watch. Ten minutes still
remained; he thought he would read the gyrocompass before it was time
to resume the trek. As he approached the sledge, he noticed that Carter
was not anywhere near it, so he turned to Quincy.

  "Where's Carter?" Chet called out.

  "Oh, he left," Quincy answered casually.

  "What do you mean? Where'd he go?"

  "He went on ahead," Quincy replied. "What are you so excited about?"
  "Listen. We've always got to pry him loose just to get him moving
again. Didn't he say anything?"

   "No, he just got up and started walking. Right after you lay down. I
figured that since he was at the think position this leg, he just wanted to
move out early and scout ahead. It seems to have closed down out there."

  Chet looked at the direction in which Carter had disappeared. Visibility
was less than a half mile now. The man was nowhere in sight.

   "You stay right here!" Chet ordered. "Don't touch a thing. Don't move
the sledge." He bent down and switched on the relay radio. "Plug yourself
into that and keep your ears open. I'm going to look for Carter. So just stay
here and listen."

   "Sure, Skip." Quincy said, sounding hurt and a little worried. "I would
have stopped him if I thought you'd get upset but I thought he was finally
getting the spirit of things. You don't think he—"

  "I don't think anything right now," Chet snapped. "Keep listening."

   Chet took off at once, hurrying into the haze. When he could no longer
see Quincy and the sledge, he called out, "Do you read me, Quincy?"

  "Loud and clear, Skip," the reply came back reassuringly.

   "I'm going to be calling Carter. Get the direction finder on me. Keep
track of where I am but don't move the sledge."

  "Gotcha, Skip."

   As Chet moved ahead, he kept calling Carter's name with his transmit
volume turned full on. There was no answer except once when Quincy
broke in to tell him that he was easy to keep track of. His voice startled
Chet, causing him to jump, and he told Quincy to stay off the air unless he
had a vital message to report.

   The uphill slope became more pronounced and he leaned slightly
forward to maintain an easier balance as he took longer strides. He
glanced at his watch. He was seventy-five minutes away from the sledge.
The wind was at his back and seemed to have an upward force which
tended to lift him off his feet. He was grateful for its force and direction
because it made him lighter and his progress was easier. When he peered
ahead and squinted to see as far ahead as possible, he thought he saw a
wall in his path. At first he could not be sure whether he was looking at a
curtain of dust and smoke but as the distance between him and the
barrier narrowed, he became certain that the obstruction was solid.

   The closer he approached, the clearer it became. He stared in awe,
forgetting for the moment to call out Carter's name. It was not a wall, but
a gigantic escarpment which rose like some fantastic battlement up from
the ground. Up, up it rose, a cliff which reached into the clouds and
disappeared behind their cover without giving a sign of hesitation or of
reducing its bulk. There was no way of estimating its height. He judged
the bank of clouds to be about fifteen hundred feet from the ground and
the extraordinary straight-sided mountain plunged into them and out of
sight.

  He looked to either side and the phenomenal bulk stretched to the
horizons through the haze. He must have gasped at the enormity of the
barrier because his earphones came to life.

  "This is Quincy. Is anybody trying to reach me?"

    "No. No, it's all right, Quincy. I've just come upon a… hold it a minute.
I'll be right back to you." Chet spotted what he had first taken to be a
boulder which had rolled to a rest at the bottom of the cliff. A second look
revealed the inert form of Carter, lying on his back, Chet hurried over and
looked into the clear face mask. Carter's eyes were closed. Chet tapped the
side of Carter's helmet and shouted his name. The astronaut's eyes
flickered open but he gazed vacantly, unseeing.

  "Quincy, I found him," Chet called.

  "Good. Anything wrong?"

  "I'm not sure. You got the direction finder on me?"

  "Sure have," Quincy answered. "You're two points to port."

   Chet made a quick calculation. He figured he had covered just short of
two miles, so that if he had been traveling at an angle of two degrees from
the direction in which the sledge was pointing, he must now be standing
about three hundred and sixty yards from where it would hit if it came
straight on.

   "Quincy, this is very important. I want you to bring the sledge in a
straight line, just as it's pointed. Keep careful track of the gyrocompass. In
about two miles you'll come to a mountain which comes straight out of the
ground like the great wall of China, only this one goes all the way up.
When you get there, Carter and I will either be there to meet you or a few
yards to your left. But if we're not there, don't move. Just call, okay?"

  "Right, Skip."

  "Oh, and Quincy, we won't need the relay over this short a distance, so
unplug from the sledge set and let's go on direct. Call me when you're
unplugged."

  There was a momentary pause and then Quincy came through again.
"How am I doin'?"

  "Coming through just fine. Start ahead. I'll see you in a while."

  "Coming at you, Skip."

   Chet returned his attention to Carter, who by now was blinking rapidly.
Chet knelt by his side. He adjusted his transmitter knob to ultra short
distance and did the same to Carter's. This gave them privacy, since their
conversation could not be picked up from any point more than twenty-five
feet away. "Carter! Can you hear me?"

   Carter's eyes blinked more rapidly and then squeezed tightly closed
twice in a row and finally focused on Chet's face.

  "Hi," he said foolishly. "I guess I must have passed out."

  "I guess you did," Chet answered sympathetically. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm all right, Skipper," Carter said. "Isn't that one gosh-awful
bastion?" He pointed at the towering mountain.

   "Sure is. Say, Carter, how did you get here? I mean, what impelled you
to cut out like this?"

   "Well, you see, I…" Carter groped for words; he looked crestfallen and
close to tears.
   "Quincy thought you might have gone ahead to scout the area," Chet
said kindly.

  Carter brightened and smiled wanly as he accepted the help. "That's
about it, I guess. You see, there was…"

   "I imagine you must have been looking up this mountain instead of
watching where you were going," Chet said blandly, "and you simply
tripped and fell. Are you sure you can get up?"

   "Sure, Skipper, sure. Thanks." Carter sat up and then creaked slowly to
his feet.

   "Quincy will be along shortly," Chet told him. "We're to meet him just
down the pike a piece. By-the-way, you better switch your transmit to
long-range."

   Carter looked down at his transmitter knob and again felt grateful to
his tactful leader.

  "Quincy, where are you?" Chet called.

   "Coming at breakneck speed, Skip," Quincy answered cheerfully. "Must
be doing a mile and a half an hour."




                          CHAPTER IX


   Creighton Curtis, Captain Borg and Commander Bradley met
informally in the director's office: Craggy, Alex Borg and Pat Bradley, the
three people most personally involved in Operation Immediate. None of
them could escape into saying—or believing—that the lives of those
entrusted with the mission did not count because of the weight of the
grander scheme. They all knew Acting Commander Duncan and
Lieutenants Parret and Smith not merely by those coldly stated ranks but
as Chet and Carter and Quincy. The difference was a subtle one but it
packed a world of difference. Whereas Acting Commander Whatsis Name
and Lieutenant Whatever might be written off as expendable units, Chet
and Carter and Quincy were flesh-and-blood; young and eager and warm.
Now the three men who had either chosen them or trained them shared a
secret responsibility.

   "I think we can all feel a little better," Craggy said, "because I am now
firmly convinced that the Russians are indeed on the surface of Venus;
and, more importantly, that conditions are pretty much as they have been
claiming. Which means that our team has an avenue of escape. If they can
reach a habitable area they should be able to hold out almost indefinitely.
Of course, there are still a number of things that aren't clear."

   "Let's start building a little house," Pat Bradley said quietly. "We'll put
together our thoughts one on top of the other. Then when we come to the
gaps, maybe the structure we have created will show us the outline of what
we don't know and allow us to guess at the answers. To begin with, are we
justified in believing that the Russians are telling the truth?"

   "I'd say so," Curtis replied. "They've never admitted even the smallest
failure unless there was no way out. Now they tell us that one of their men
is near death and that their crew needs antibiotics. They want us to supply
the medicine. To me, this means they are aware our team is on Venus.
That's why they are asking for our help. If their story about the tropical
paradise was phony, our boys would expose their lie. I am certain they
would rather let their man die than risk such exposure; therefore I think
we can absolutely accept their version of things."

  "I agree completely," Bradley said. "I just wanted to be sure that we
were unanimous. Now, what else can we be sure of?"

  "Well, we've got their location pinpointed," Borg announced. "Jodrell
Banks gave us their figures and now the Russians have confirmed the site.
This means that Chet was given the correct coordinates."

   "What it all boils down to," Curtis said, "is a matter of navigation. If
Chet and the boys plot a true course, they'll come out of it all right. At
least we were able to get that information to them."

   Bradley shook his head slowly. His little house had to be built of facts,
not wishes. "It's not just a question of navigation," he said flatly. "None of
us has any idea of what they're facing. They have to cover roughly one
hundred miles. On their way to Venus, they made that distance in just
about one quarter of a second. But on Venus itself a hundred miles might
take a lifetime."

   "True," Borg agreed.

    There was not a great deal that could be added; and certainly nothing
could be done but, in general, they all agreed that the situation seemed
improved. The fact that the Russians were there and the area in which
they were based could support life was good news indeed. The frustrating
thing was the total lack of communication with Chet and his mission. The
silence was understandable because only the landing vehicle was equipped
to operate Mariner's radio relay and the equipment was not portable; but
it was, nonetheless, most frustrating. How simple things would be if they
could talk to Chet and give him the encouraging news that safety lay just a
few miles ahead. What a morale booster that would be! They all realized
that a renewal of hope at the right time could make the difference between
life and death.

  Finally the three men got down to the real purpose of their meeting.
Curtis put it squarely. "What do we tell the Russians?"

  "What can we tell them?" Borg countered. "We don't really know
anything, do we?"

  And now Pat Bradley, the scientist with the quietly logical mind, the
one who was a stickler for facts and truth, put forth his suggestions.

   "I would tell them," he said, "that our crew is supplied with Septrin,
which is far more effective than penicillin, and the man who is currently
suffering from an allergic reaction to penicillin can take it with safety. I
would tell them that our boys are approximately fifty miles away and that
we are sending Operation Immediate instructions to deliver the Septrin to
the Venera crew."

   Borg sounded surprised. "It would not be exactly true," he remarked.

   "To the contrary," Bradley insisted calmly, "it might be precisely true. It
is most likely that our boys are not more than fifty miles away. And there
is nothing to prevent us sending them a message. Of course," he added,
"they might not receive the word, but it would be true that we sent the
instructions. The point is, I would like the Russians to wait for our fellows.
I would not want them to panic and attempt a flight back to Earth before
Chet and his crew can get there. I think it would be better if the Russians
received orders from their own headquarters to stay put."

   "Good point," Curtis said. He scribbled on the pad in front of him. He
had hardly expected this mousy little intellectual officer to come up with a
hard, practical plan. And yet Bradley had acted very much in keeping with
his usual approach to problems: first, define the desired end, then apply
the means which would most likely produce the solution.

   "Tell me, Pat," Curtis asked, "how do you account for the enormous
differences between the Russian report and conditions as our boys found
them?"

   "Well, of course, that's not my department," Bradley answered
defensively. But as soon as he had made it clear that he was delivering
personal opinions rather than scientific conclusions, he spoke at length on
how such opposites could occur. To strike a note which would set the
proper mood, he began by pointing out the extremes which occurred right
here on Earth. Two expeditions, one landing in the Arctic and one in the
Sahara Desert, would send back extraordinarily conflicting reports about
conditions on this planet. There were places here, less than a hundred
miles apart, which could also produce startlingly different concepts of life
on Earth. Mt. Everest, five and a half miles above sea level, had a far
different atmosphere, temperature, vegetation and topography than a
spot, say sixty or seventy miles away at sea level. Now speaking easily,
Bradley laid out his views.

   "On Venus, conditions are not exactly the same as on Earth but there
are similarities. For instance, it appears that at its poles glaciers of ice,
caps five miles or more thick, exist. Since Venus rotates so slowly, its
atmosphere does not mix as efficiently as ours does and therefore heat is
not transferred at all well from the equator to the poles. Thus an extremely
hot equator and icy poles are quite possible. This stationary heat and lack
of rotation would cause a vertical mix to occur so that winds might blow
straight up, rather than across the surface in some areas. At the glaciers'
edge, the ice would melt and cause streams to run toward the hot regions,
Here they would evaporate and carry water vapor into the clouds. At the
poles it would snow. On Earth, one finds more oxygen at sea level than at
high altitudes. On Venus, the reverse could be true."

   Curtis and Borg listened attentively as Bradley spoke. Finally Curtis
asked a question: "Are there mountains on Venus?"
   "That's not my department," Bradley answered automatically and the
three of them laughed. "I mean, really," he said when he had recovered his
solemn composure, "I'm a computer man, not an astronomer, but as far as
I know, nobody claims to know very much about the terrain on Venus. I
was only trying to give you some idea of how one team could find oxygen
while another suffers in carbon dioxide. How a tropical paradise and a
super-hot equator could exist on the same planet. The explanations I gave
are theories. There may be other circumstances which account for the
difference. I can only join you in hoping that Chet and Carter and Quincy
will be back to give us the facts."

  "You can say that again," Borg said enthusiastically.

  "Amen," Curtis breathed.




                          CHAPTER X


   Chet and Carter chatted while they waited for Quincy to arrive. Chet
could see that the junior officer was still tense but that was
understandable; actually he seemed to have recovered remarkably.
Together they walked along the foot of the giant escarpment in the
direction of the planned meeting with Quincy. They timed their
three-hundred-yard jaunt in order to get to the appointed spot just in
time to greet Quincy, but they had to hustle the last hundred yards when
they saw the sledge coming lickety-split, maintaining a beeline from the
horizon to the cliffs edge. Quincy was puffing as he pulled up.

  "Everything okay here?" he panted.

  "Yes. Everything's okay," Carter replied.

   "Well, do we go straight up or around it?" Quincy asked cheerfully,
indicating the endless barrier.

   Chet stepped back a few feet and studied the awful bulk. "Frankly, I
haven't given the matter any thought at all," he answered, "but we're not
going to make any decisions today. I declare the balance of this day a
holiday. With pay. We'll make camp and rest. After we've had some sleep
we'll be in better shape to tackle problems."

   There was no argument. Even Quincy seemed grateful for the decision.
Chet knew, although the others had perhaps not yet realized, that the solid
wall which confronted them might be their death sentence. Attempting to
scale its sheer sides was out of the question. The reserves of power upon
which their lives depended were shrinking to the danger point. The
mountain could not be endless, of course, but where did the nearest
crossing point present itself? A few miles to the left or the right? Or the
thing might continue for hundreds of miles in both directions. Only one
thing was clear: they were all too played out to wrestle with the dilemma
at the moment.

   "We don't want to establish camp too close to the cliff," he said.
"Things may blow over it and we squash kind of easy." He looked back out
over the sloping plain. "There doesn't appear to be much shelter out there,
either."

  "Why don't we use the cave, Skip?" Quincy suggested. "Looks like it
would be cozy."

  "What cave?"

   "That one over there," Quincy replied, pointing to a place on the cliff
about fifty yards to the right of where they were standing. From where he
stood, Chet could see a fold in the face of the wall where it met the ground
but he could not be sure that it represented an opening.

  "What makes you think that's a cave?" he asked.

    "I saw it as I was coming in," Quincy answered. "I don't know how deep
it is, but it's a cave, all right. I forgot that you hadn't come here by the
same route, so I just assumed you had seen it."

   No, he had not seen it, but now, leaving the sledge where it stood, Chet
led the trio on an exploratory junket. They hurried over to the opening and
peered in. The fault which created the hollow was an impressive one. On
both sides, the separation in the face of the cliff was straight, as if it had
been hand-hewn. The straight walls soared up for a distance of twenty feet
and then arched toward each other, meeting in a point. It was certainly a
good camping site so they all went back to the sledge and carried what
equipment they needed, including self-contained helmet lamps.

   Returning to the cave, Quincy was eager to explore the cavern but Chet
insisted that they eat first. He was as anxious to discover its limits as any
of them but he knew that they had been through a hard day and he was
not planning a casual look around. He wanted everybody to be at their
best, so in spite of Quincy's impatience, they sat down and squeezed a
couple of tubes of food into their stomachs and had a mouthful of water.

   Although their meal was by no means a feast, the nourishment revived
them and even Carter felt the tenseness within him easing.

   "Now that we all feel better, let me see if I can't knock down these
feelings of well-being," Chet began light-heartedly. "It seems we've got
ourselves a problem."

  "No!" Carter's voice reeked with sarcasm. Chet was glad to hear it
because it sounded as if his spirit was returning. Sarcasm was far more
desirable than the whine of despair.

   "First of all, let's take a look at what we've accomplished," Chet
continued. "I think we should all realize that three days ago we were hit by
the type of disaster which every astronaut most fears. Nobody talks about
it much because it's sort of like asking yourself what you would do if you
found yourself in the middle of the Atlantic without a boat or a life jacket
or a radio. You could swim, of course, but for how long? That's why we
don't talk about it. Well, in spite of the shock, we're pretty well organized
and we're still swimming, so to speak. Now the big plus in our favor is that
we've actually covered twenty miles. We've zigged and zagged five times
that far but we are, in fact, twenty miles nearer our objective. So I just
want you to realize that our efforts, far from being useless, have produced
some real progress."

   "Well, hooray for us!" Quincy chortled. "Shall we hold the medal
ceremony right here or do you think Craggy will want to present them to
us personally?"

   "Let's hold off on the medals," Chet replied. "Our problem right now is
this monstrous mountain. We can divvy up and scout for a passage in
both directions, leaving one man at the sledge, but that means separating
the team, each man on his own. I don't like the idea."
  "Neither do I," Carter said fervently.

    "Of course we can do it," Quincy announced optimistically, "but I'm not
too hot about the idea of wandering around on my own. I mean, this place
is lonely enough as it is."

   "I don't know yet," Chet answered frankly, "But I feel we should all be
thinking about it. We've got till morning." He stood up. "Cave exploring,
anyone?" he called.

   They joined him at once. Putting their helmet lights in place, they each
sent a beam of light ahead as they made their way cautiously toward the
rear. The cave narrowed and became tube-like. They had to bend to get
through some low spots but they were able to walk upright most of the
time, which was a boon since the rough floor and twisting walls made
passage in their awkward suits difficult. Bumping and sliding, they
followed the rocky tube which snaked first left and then right and started
slanting upward, first gently and finally so steeply that the astronauts were
on all fours, using their hands and feet as they climbed its path.

  They were moving in single file, grunting and huffing at the strain,
when Chet stopped short.

  "Hey, fellows, switch off your lights for a minute," he called.

   There was a momentary silence in the darkness and then he said, "Sure
enough. There's light up ahead. Looks like we're breaking through. Come
on!"

   They scrambled forward, slipping on the loose, dry dust in their haste.
Then they could see that the tube bent sharply upward and broke through
the surface as if it were a manhole. They looked up and could see the
familiar cloud cover which seemed unnaturally bright after their
experience with the dark. The sides of the narrow shaft were rough and
studded with rocks and ledges so that climbing up was a fairly easy task
although it required a lot of work.

   Chet was first out, heaving himself into a sitting position and then
withdrawing his dangling legs to make room for Quincy and then Carter.
They stood around the opening from which they had just emerged and
surveyed the scene. The hole had come out almost in the center of a flat
shelf which was some twenty feet wide by ten long. On all sides of this
ledge, the massive cliffs continued their sheer ascent into the clouds. At
the rear of the shelf, where it met the great wall, the fault continued,
slanting its broken pathway up into the folds of the hideous cliff.

    They stared at it, fascinated by its promise of escape. They could trace
its course for about two hundred yards, but then the cleft twisted behind
an outcropping and was lost to view.

   "Well, we can get that far for sure," Quincy remarked, pointing to the
place where it disappeared.

  "What if it just peters out?" Carter asked.

   Nobody bothered to answer that one and Chet made the decision for all
of them. "Well take our chances with it," he said.

   Carter led the way back to the main cave, where they would make camp
for the night. In the morning they would start the climb. Now that a way
out of their dilemma had presented itself, they began to admit the
seriousness of their position before the discovery of the tunnel.

   Although they had only been on the road for three days, everything was
beginning to wear out: their nerves, their physical capacities and their
power supplies. Yet it appeared that eighty percent of the journey lay
ahead of them and a long forced march at right angles to the direction in
which they had to go could have had fatal consequences. Now this cave
with its tunnel and pathway slanting toward the clouds had come to their
rescue. But it also raised some difficult questions. Chet felt that the
questions should be settled before they slept so that they could awaken in
the morning to a definite plan. When their physical energy would be at its
highest, he did not want to waste it in talking.

   "Thanks to your sharp eyes, Quincy," he said, "we've got a break. We're
going to have to take full advantage of it because we may not get another
one. To begin with, we'll have to abandon the sledge."

   Both men looked at him in horror. It was obvious that the sledge would
have to be abandoned because there was no way at all for it to negotiate
the perpendicular tube through which they had to pass. And beyond that,
the steep climb up the path of the friendly fault was beyond the capability
of the powered carrier; yet it had never occurred to them to abandon the
thing which had come to symbolize their only security. Chet noticed their
consternation.

  "Okay, Quincy, if you want to bring it along, be my guest," he said.

  "Well, I don't see any way…" Quincy was backing down.

  "You, Carter?" Chet pressed.

   "Not me, Skipper. If it won't carry me, I'm not going to carry it," he
joked nervously.

  "I see what you mean," Quincy offered. "Still, if we leave everything
here, how… for instance, how do we navigate without the gyrocompass?"

   "We don't," Chet replied simply. "We're going to follow this pass all the
way to the top and once we're there we will rely on that old-fashioned
directional guide known as a sense of direction."

   "If we reach the top, we'll have passed into, maybe beyond those
clouds," Quincy reminded him; "how are we going to retain any sense of
direction then?"

   "Instinct," Chet said. "One way or another we are all going to be
foot-slogging every inch of the way. When we get to the top, we'll pool our
memories and our observations as well as our feelings and we'll make a
decision at that time."

   "Skip, because of your ineffable wisdom and because of the great trust I
place in your decisions, but most of all because I can't think of anything
else to do, I'm with you. We leave the sledge here and proceed on instinct.
Now what do we take with us?"

   That was the question. When they had abandoned the landing vehicle,
they had to leave behind much they considered vital. Their supplies were
short as a result; what could they leave behind now that they were about
to abandon the sledge?

   They used the main power pack to recharge their suits, then they
rejuvenated their air-purification systems. These systems kept circulating
the air they exhaled, sweetening it and removing the impurities while
preserving what oxygen had not been absorbed. As a result, the relatively
small amounts of oxygen which were metered into the system made it into
a breathable mixture. Without this recycling, they would have had to
carry a great quantity of air with them; as it was, they made sure their
portable tanks were full. These actions were inevitable and did not add
anything to their load so there was no need to debate the items.

   Once this was done, the difficult part began. Everything was taken off
the sledge and laid out for inspection and selection. Food tubes and water;
portable power packs; medical supplies; extra lamps; auxiliary radios and
electronic equipment; spare parts for the suits; instruction portfolios;
emergency oxygen tanks. Everything was unpacked and it was astounding
what a large area was covered by these supplies when they were laid on
the ground. Looking at the collection, the astronauts faced an awful
problem. Taken all together, it was really a bit less than three men should
have to face a foreign wilderness with. Yet it was a great deal more than
could be hand-carried. Every item was judged and discussed at great
length. Some were placed together in an area reserved for things that
must be taken. Others were placed in a group which was declared
doubtful. Everything which was reluctantly placed in the pile to be
abandoned was put there only after long consideration, and then only with
the understanding that after the first sorting everything would be picked
through again.

   The medical supplies, in one self-contained carrying pack, came under
the most severe debate. Quincy argued that under the conditions which
existed outside their suits it was most improbable that any of the
medications could be applied to an injury. He asked them all to accept the
gruesome truth that anyone unfortunate enough to become disabled was
doomed in any event and therefore it would be senseless to burden
themselves with medicines they could not use. Carter agreed with him.

   Although he was no longer hostile and did not revert to the whimpering
attitude he had shown before, Carter seemed to have resigned himself to
the death which he figured they must all suffer. Whenever anybody
suggested leaving something behind, he agreed almost automatically since
he did not really believe that anything could help them in any case. But he
did not voice these feelings. He simply agreed.

   All final decisions fell to Chet and he decided that the medical supplies
had to come along. To leave them behind, he felt, would be an admission
that failure was to be expected; he truly believed that if they stuck
together and applied themselves intelligently to the task, they would
ultimately arrive at the Russian base. If this was so, then somewhere along
the line they should experience conditions which would support life, and
there the medical supplies might prove invaluable. It would be
unthinkable to reach such a place and then have to abandon an injured
man simply because they had thrown away the means to heal or cure him.
The medical supplies were placed in the must-be-taken group.

   Other items could not be selected on such a philosophical basis. Since it
was obvious that some things had to be left behind, one could not feel that
everything so delegated was an admission of defeat. But after the first
sorting, and at the end of the second, one thing became clear: three men,
even when overloaded, could only carry the bare minimum needs of two
and a half men. Chet saw this and understood it but decided against
putting it quite that bluntly. It was impossible to see far enough into the
future to make a truly sensible plan. Nobody knew what lay ahead.
Because their suits, when fully charged, could last no more than ten days,
they decided on this as a unit against which to measure all their needs. So
ten days' worth of food was allotted to each man. At that, they decided to
cut down to two meals per day to save weight.

   It was late when they were done but at least all decisions had been
made. The supplies were packed and attached to various harnesses and
nets which could be clipped to the outside of the suits. They would need to
keep their hands free for the climb. Finally they sat down and treated
themselves to several extra tubes of food and all the water they wanted.
Then they slept.

   Unlike the night before their lift-off from the Cape, the team did not
sleep well. Instead of the excitement, there was the leaden feeling that the
odds did not favor them. An incredibly tough job lay ahead of them; they
were on the verge of their last major effort because they would not be
capable of mounting another one. They were tense and fidgety and
anxious to get underway.

   Thus they were up and about earlier than usual and once again they
stoked up on extra nourishment although none of them felt particularly
hungry. Then they pulled the sledge into the cave, just inside the door
where it would be protected from the direct force of a sudden storm and
yet easily visible to any wandering traveler who might poke his head inside
in the years to come. Since all their recording tapes carried the same basic
information, Chet asked one of the two to leave his on the sledge so that
anyone finding the camp and its array of equipment would also have a
record of how it had come about—in case they never got back.

   Carter quickly put his tape in the center of the empty sledge. Then all
the power was shut off, even the gyrocompass.

   Their equipment swinging and clanging from its harness, they switched
on their lamps and proceeded toward the rear of the cave and into the
tunnel. Their progress was slower because of their burdens, but they
started out with the confidence of travelers who had passed through the
route before. Soon they had lifted themselves out of the manhole exit and
stood again on the small shelf. Chet extinguished his light and made for
the cleft. Carter and Quincy followed.

   Slowly, testing for handholds and loose shale, he inched his way
deliberately upward. Not a word was spoken as everyone concentrated on
the difficult climb. Occasionally, a series of jutting rocks provided a
staircase which enabled Chet to take three or four steps in a row, but most
of the time he had to find a grip for his armored fingers, and then raise
one leg to the next level, bring the other leg up, pause, seek another
fingerhold and repeat the process.

   At times the V-shaped cleft which enclosed them seemed to ascend
almost as steeply as the sheer cliff sides; in other places, it took a more
level course, cutting deeply into the mass of land. Whenever Chet reached
a place where his view was obstructed, he would lift himself above the
boulder which stood in his way. He would hold his breath until he could
see again that the pathway continued. At any point, the great fault could
end and they would be defeated.

   At one point it seemed as if his worst fears were about to be realized.
The path ended and above it the cliff rose vertically. He looked back and
saw Quincy and Carter toiling their way up the path he had covered. They
were not crowding each other, so that each could make his way without
the feeling that a slipped foot would crash into his buddy. He hesitated
before pulling himself a notch higher and then he saw the opening.
Another cave, much smaller than the one below, created an opening and
he moved into it, crouching awkwardly. He had to bend so low that he was
in danger of toppling over and considered crawling on his hands and
knees, but fortunately the tunnel, it turned out to be, was a short one and
soon he was out of it and into the light on the other side. Mercifully, the
cleft continued.
   Since the climb had begun, the only human sounds to be heard were
the grunts of the straining men as they toiled in a concentration of silence.
The next natural tunnel did not come as quite the same shock to Chet. He
began to feel that, somehow, luck was with them, and he confidently
expected to walk straight through and emerge on the other side. His
optimism turned out to be well-founded, for not only did he do just that,
but the cavern was larger than the first one he had crouched through. He
could stand up, the ground was fairly level and the exit on the other side
was shining with light. He waited for his teammates to catch up.

   He had caught his breath by the time Quincy got to him. "I figure this
is where we eat," he announced.

   "Yes, yes," Quincy panted, "and rest, too, I hope."

   Carter joined them.

   "This a good spot for lunch?" Chet asked him.

   "Sure," Carter agreed laconically.

   Chet got the feeling that if he had asked him whether this was a good
place to turn themselves into elephants, he would have agreed in exactly
the same manner. They helped each other unbuckle the heavy harnesses
and then they stretched and flapped their arms around, enjoying the
freedom of movement.

  Stomping about in relief at the shedding of so much extra weight, Chet
walked over to the exit and stuck his head into the open. He just wanted to
make certain that the pathway continued.

   "Looks like we're heading into dust," he called. Quincy walked over and
joined him in the inspection of the outdoors.

   "Yeah," he said slowly, "it is dust. I guess that's what made it look
brighter; must be reflecting the light."

   "When we're at ground level," Chet mused, "I'll bet we look up at the
clouds and we can see them only through a whole layer of this stuff. If I'm
right, then we can figure on it getting thicker for a while."

   "Then what?"
   "I don't know," Chet replied, "but my guess is that when we get through
this, we'll hit clouds. Real clouds."

  "You mean water clouds?"

  "Maybe."

   Carter did not bother to join them. He could hear their conversation in
his earphones but he did not enter the conversation; he sat, resting,
looking fixedly at the ground. When the others came in to eat, he reached
mechanically for his own food and they all took their nourishment in
silence. When they were finished, Chet reviewed the progress they had
made. In view of the hard work, he believed it important to keep in mind
the fact that they were not on a treadmill but that every weary step was
bringing them that much closer to their destination. Those dust clouds
outside were evidence of the progress they had made. But he also
cautioned them to stick a trifle closer together. Since it was quite possible
that their visibility would be impaired, he thought it best if they would all
check with each other every five or ten minutes. Everybody would simply
call out his name. That way nobody would straggle and get lost and they
could all move ahead without being nervous that one or the other was in
trouble.

   They did not much relish putting the weighty harness back on, but they
helped each other and when they were ready, Chet led them to the exit and
resumed the climb.

   The next few days were spent in dust. It did not change their situation
except that they could only see clearly a few yards in any direction. They
kept calling their names regularly; Carter was always last and several
times Chet had to ask him specifically to come in. He always did,
apologizing for his lapse.

    The way was unbelievably difficult. They had to follow the natural fault
because there was no alternative. It led them from the tight confines of the
deep V-cut, where their shoulders and bulging harness rubbed against the
sides and they felt straight-jacketed, out into narrow ledges whose sides
fell away in the emptiness below. They passed through dozens of caves,
some of which required them to crawl. They no longer marched strictly by
Chet's watch. Now they stopped only when they had reached a suitable
place. Sometimes this would not be until an hour or two after the watch
told them they should be resting. On occasion, before the time was right,
they would find a roomy cavern and decide to make a meal there rather
than risk being caught out on impossible terrain for the next few hours.

   Every movement of their powered suits used a share of the electrical
energy stored in its power pack. If the suit had to walk a man in even
strides along fairly level roads, its energy supply could last ten days. But
every added exertion it was called upon to perform required the
expenditure of a like amount of power. Each man was carrying some
seventy pounds of added equipment. The motors, whirring and spinning,
had to move this extra weight and they used large amounts of electricity.
And this combined load of astronaut and equipment had to be heaved up
and over barriers. Their power supplies were being drained away at an
alarming rate as their tedious climb continued.

   Their bodies, too, were subjected to the strain of negotiating the
ceaseless uphill wilderness. Although the suits were power-assisted, their
every movement was directed by the aching muscles of the man within.
Their constant heavy breathing caused the oxygenators to work overtime
and the result was that the air they breathed kept being returned in a
staler and staler condition. They had to adjust the oxygen flow in order to
make the mixture breathable, but this caused their supply of that precious
gas to be used at a much faster rate than they had anticipated. At a time
when their bodies were using up large floods of energy, they had cut
themselves down to two meals a day and this soon began to tell as an
appalling weariness settled over them.

   Chet kept an eye on the diminishing supplies but there was nothing he
could do about it except encourage the others to move when they wanted
to rest and to hoard their food when they wanted to eat. He did not call
their attention to the rate at which their supplies were being consumed
because he knew that Carter, in particular, might well give up the fight.
Parret was in such a despondent mood that he moved with them as if he
were a robot and Chet wanted to spare him further discouragement.

   On the fifth day, as they camped for lunch, Chet noted that they had
less than two days of power left. Instead of commenting on this, he asked
them to observe the clouds. Whereas ragged layers of dust beneath them
obscured the path they had traveled, above them the clouds seemed
dustless. And much brighter. One particularly bright patch almost
suggested that the sun lay in that direction. If this was so, the remaining
cover could not be very thick, for under a heavy bank no area would be
brighter than the next.

   Carter politely looked where he was asked to look and made no
comment. Quincy, too, was strangely silent. When he was through eating,
he came over to Chet and Carter and gave their entire suits a careful
inspection. Carter submitted to the procedure meekly, but Chet asked him
what he thought he was doing.

   "Just checking, Skip," he answered thoughtfully. Then, leaving his two
companions where they stood, he wandered over to the exit and stepped
just outside, keeping his back toward them. Chet wondered at the odd
behavior but he clamped a tight control over himself to prevent his
bringing yet another problem into the open. If Quincy cracked, Carter
would just dissolve; and Chet wanted to make the best possible use of the
remaining two days. Grimly, he started to gather the harnesses when his
earphones picked up a sudden rasping fit of coughing. He looked up
sharply and, seeing Carter at his side and motionless, he swung around to
observe Quincy, who had not changed position. The young astronaut's
shoulders convulsed in reaction to the spell of coughing but he managed to
speak.

  "Come over here, Skip," he croaked. "Take a look at something."

   Chet hurried over anxiously. Quincy sounded choked but there was no
panic in his voice and he quit coughing although he kept clearing his
throat. Chet looked out over the clouds but saw nothing unusual. Then his
eyes sought the continuation of the trail and found it leading steadily into
the brightness.

   "What is it, Quincy?" he asked, scanning the entire panorama. "I don't
see anything that shouldn't be there."

  "No, I mean me, Skip," Quincy said. "Look at me!"

   Chet twisted to peer at the astronaut by his side and he gasped.
Quincy's faceplate had been unbolted and it was swinging wide open on its
hinge.

  "Quincy!" Chet shouted.

   "That's right, Skip"—Quincy smiled—"it's kind of hot out here and the
air stinks; smells like acid. But it's delicious."
                         CHAPTER XI


   As quickly as he could, Chet had opened his own facemask and he
reacted to the pungent air as Quincy had. He alternately choked and
coughed and laughed as tears streamed down his face. But the tears were
caused by coughing and he was very happy.

   "Hey, Carter," he yelled when he had recovered control and his
breathing had settled down, "you can open up and get rid of that suit of
armor."

  Carter came over slowly and looked first at Chet and then at Quincy,
but he made no move to unbolt his facemask.

   "Come on," Quincy urged, "it's great. Wow!" To demonstrate, he took a
deep breath and immediately started coughing again. It took a little
getting used to. Without saying a word, Carter raised his hand and started
to loosen the bolts. When he opened the facemask, he held his breath and
then carefully and cautiously sipped at the new atmosphere. As a result, he
did not suffer a coughing spell and took the change quite calmly. His
controlled approach was obviously the correct procedure to follow but
Chet was not pleased at the total lack of excitement and enthusiasm which
his friend displayed. If finding a breathable atmosphere could not snap
Carter out of his depression his spirits must be at an even lower ebb than
they appeared.

   All power in the suits was switched off and then the suits were
removed. The sudden change from the air-conditioned interior of the
protective armor to the heat of the outside air made it seem even hotter
but they were free and able to move about normally and it was a great
relief. As they were undressing, Quincy explained that he had kept careful
check of the temperature and his oxygen tab had indicated that the
external atmosphere might well support life.

  While Chet was involved with the worry of their failing power supply
and Carter tagged along not caring much about anything, Quincy had
decided that they might be able to survive without their suits.
   "So you see," he concluded, "I did not want to get anybody's hopes up
unless I was sure. I checked both your thermometers and oxygen tabs and
they agreed with mine. So I thought I would go outside and sneak a little
whiff before I sent off the fireworks and started the celebrations."

   As soon as he was free of his suit, Quincy acted like a ten-year-old. He
danced about, hopping and skipping as he flapped his arms and leaped
over imaginary obstacles. In his long underwear he presented a ridiculous
sight.

    "I think that was a very brave thing to do," Carter said in a dull voice.
He was not addressing anyone in particular; he seemed to be merely
talking aloud. "You might very well have been killed. You did it to save us.
If there had been poisons…" He shook his head as his voice trailed off.

  "I hate to drag you down," Chet said loudly, "but you're using up a
whole afternoon's worth of energy and we don't have that much to spare."

   Quincy had worked off his excitement and he sobered up. He joined
Chet and Carter, sprawling luxuriously on the ground. This atmosphere
was a big break; just the sort of thing they had hoped might come their
way. But it was not an unmixed blessing. If the air continued to be
breathable, and there was no reason to suppose it would get anything but
better as they climbed higher, then their oxygen problem was solved. If the
temperature also maintained its present level, and there was good reason
to suppose that it might drop even further with altitude, then they would
no longer require refrigeration. If they could get along without
oxygenators or refrigeration, then they did not need their powered suits
and in that case, their power supply problems were solved. All this was to
the good.

    The problem that remained, and, in fact, intensified, was that from
here on everything which they carried would have to be transported by
sheer muscle power without the aid of power-assistance. They were still
very short of food. Now more than ever the medical supplies had to
accompany them. Radio was no longer necessary for communication
between them—they could talk and hear normally—but at least one radio
set had to accompany them in order to attempt contact with the Russian
base. Since the only radio they had was built into their suits, this meant
that one set would have to be ripped out, with its antenna, microphone,
earphones and power supply. They shortened the harnesses to make them
fit around their bodies and they stripped off the long electric underwear,
replacing it with the loose coveralls they had worn while in the powered
suits.

   Quincy got one of the radios out and managed to find a place to hang
each of its components on Chet's harness. When they were all buckled up
and laden, they resumed their climb. The temperature hovered around a
hundred and ten. It was possible to survive in that heat but it was not
possible to be comfortable. They were drenched with perspiration before
they had gone two hundred yards but the damp discomfort was the least
of their problems. The loss of bodily water had to be made up and their
tubes of water were pitifully inadequate. Within their powered suits, all
moisture was purified and recycled; out here, escaping moisture
evaporated and was lost.

   During his basic training with the Agency, one of the survival
techniques which Chet had been taught was to travel only in the cool of
night when caught in an area of searing heat, camping by day. Here the
separation of day from night was an artificial change in their routine;
change dictated only by Chet's watch, which could not make things cooler.

   Chet kept them on the trail for three hours, by which time they reached
another in the series of tunnel-caves. It was noticeably cooler inside and
he made the decision to camp for the night. They took off their harnesses
and rested for a while before reaching for the food. Sitting or laying was a
great deal more comfortable without the stiff armored suits and Chet
looked forward to a good night's rest. He felt they all needed it. He
squeezed the paste directly from the tube into his mouth and the
simplicity with which this could be accomplished made him feel that life
was getting a little easier. There was moisture in the pasted food. Not of a
type to quench thirst, but enough for his body to detect and separate and
put to good use. Except for the thirst, he felt more comfortable than at any
other time since the trek had begun. He suggested that they share one
tube of water between them. Quincy agreed but Carter declined his, saying
he did not need it.

   "Yes, you do," Chet insisted, holding the tube out toward him. "We all
do. For everyone's good we must each maintain ourselves in the best shape
possible. That takes water. Here," he urged.

   "Give mine to Quincy," Carter said, keeping his eyes averted. "He did a
very brave thing today. He saved us all."
  "Aw, come on, Carter," Quincy bellowed to hide his embarrassment.
"Take your share so we can all get ours!"

   Reluctantly, Carter did as he was told but they noticed that he barely
took a mouthful before passing it on. The discussion turned once again to
what should be taken and what should be left behind. This was nothing
about which one could really claim to be experienced. Things that seemed
vital turned out to be expendable, but only after a great deal of
mind-searching. Of course the suits were to be left behind. There was no
argument against that. Yet these suits had borne them to where they were
and abandoning them seemed callous somehow.

   One part of Chet's mind clung to the idea of hanging on to things. The
other probed the possibility of leaving almost everything. The struggle to
achieve a balance between the two opposing lines caused agony. Working
within these two opposite pressures, Chet made the new list. Quincy was
not in complete agreement, yet he accepted the decisions. Carter took no
part in the discussions, merely saying yes when the decision was yes and
shaking his head mournfully when the answer was no.

   Once all the decisions were made, they turned in. Chet fell asleep
almost at once. In his new-found comfort he dreamed of Earth; not with
longing, but as if he were really and truly there. Driving, answering the
telephone, walking in and out of offices; he had problems but they were
real ones to which answers could always be found within the structure of
the Agency. It was an active but restful sleep, and when he awoke he was
refreshed. He stretched and yawned and rose on one elbow. Quincy was
just beginning to stir.

  "Top of the morning," Chet croaked with a dry throat. "Shall we be up
and at them?"

  "Sure, sure," Quincy moaned sleepily. "We'll hit them again harder,
harder. But not now, okay?"

   In spite of their desires to drift from reality back to the coziness of
sleep, they struggled awake. Once they got themselves to understand that
they were on the planet Venus and involved in a climb for their lives, they
were able to come to grips with things.

  "Where's Carter?" Chet asked.
  "I just woke up," Quincy protested. "How should I know?"

  Carter was nowhere in sight.

   His harness lay in a pile near the entrance. From there a trail of
equipment led back down the path they had traversed the previous day.
Several tubes of food, placed strategically so that the next one could be
seen from the one before, lay along the path. They followed the
conspicuous trail. Tubes of food, water, a glove and other personal items
led them to a ledge. It was narrow, no more than three feet at its widest
point, but it constituted a bridge across which all three had made their
way. Left and right, the sides plunged into the awful dust-filled depths.
The bridge ended in a flat area which led to a tunnel. Right in the middle
of the bridge, the last few items of Carter's possessions lay in a heap. His
coveralls topped the pile.

   Chet and Quincy called his name, their vocal chords resenting the
strain suddenly thrown against them. They coughed, cleared their throats
and called again. They stepped over the little pile, walking into the tunnel
and beyond it, calling and listening for an answer. But they both knew.
They called and searched for an hour before they conceded victory to the
wastes which surrounded them. They returned slowly, picking up each
piece Carter had discarded. When they arrived back at the cave, they put
the items in a pile by themselves.

   "The fool! The idiot! The stupid pinhead!" Quincy stamped around the
rock-bound clearing with his fists clenched. Chet could see tears
streaming down his cheeks as he continued calling his missing partner a
boob, a dolt, an imbecile. When he had quieted down and subsided into
gentle sobs, Chet spoke to him.

  "He really thought he was doing it for us," he said.

    "Yes, I know," Quincy replied. "That's what makes it so hard to take. I'll
admit we always had our differences, but, holy smoke, I figured we would
all make it or all not make it."

   "It had nothing to do with you," Chet assured him. "Carter was never
happy about this mission. Since he was opposed to it from the beginning,
he might have somehow started to blame himself for our troubles."

  "But it wasn't his fault!" Quincy said strongly. "Of course not," Chet
agreed, "but when a man starts to collapse under a strain, it's not a
question of thinking. I mean, his logic told him that he shouldn't be here;
and yet here he was. Maybe he drifted away from logic and decided to pull
himself out."

  "I wish he hadn't," Quincy replied simply.

  "I know," Chet said.

   There was nothing further to be said. Conversation could not bring
Carter back. Words might help soothe their own grief at his passing but
the pressure of time was still upon them and if Carter's sacrifice were to
be made meaningful, the survivors would have to take immediate
advantage of the supplies he had bequeathed them.

  So the journey was resumed.

    Chet found that being left alone with Quincy eased his burden of
leadership. Within twenty-four hours the situation seemed to have
changed subtly from one which entailed a leader and his crew to
something more closely approaching that of two brothers undertaking a
difficult project. Chet was still the "older brother," to be sure, and he was
still in charge, but they needed each other's company and they worked
closely together. They pushed themselves harder than before, but now
Quincy was no longer grandstanding with his challenges to push forward,
skip rests and set records. He did not bait Chet with suggestions that they
could be there by now if only they had hurried. Both of them were aware
that "there" was an imaginary place which had no more substance than
the equator back on Earth. Or the North Pole. Places like that existed, but
only if you really had the patience and wit to find them and knew you had
found them once you were there.

   With neither pushing nor hindering the other needlessly, they made
excellent progress along ridges, through tunnels and up the deep clefts. As
they climbed, the air got purer and they coughed less. They found it still
intensely hot but either they were getting used to the heat or perhaps it
was somewhat cooler than when they had first taken off their
air-conditioned suits days before. And then they came to the plateau. It
was U-shaped, fairly smooth surfaced and sloped gently upward as it
headed into the great fault within the cliffs. At the point where they
climbed onto it, its width was close to two hundred yards; from there, it
narrowed slowly but they could not see its end.
    Quincy was encouraged. If nothing else, the plateau promised an easy
crossing. Unhampered by the awkward suits in which they had begun
their journey, this easy country could be covered at the truly fantastic
speed of three miles per hour. If it continued, thirty miles a day was
within their grasp. Chet's reaction was more reserved. On both sides, the
cliffs still rose into the nearby clouds without the slightest sign of a break.
It was always possible that some tunnel would lead them through the
great range and beyond it to the other side. Perhaps that was where their
goal lay. But if they had to reach the top of this formidable mountain, then
making three miles per hour along almost level ground was not, in itself,
as helpful as it seemed.

   Their differing points of view did not alter things; the plateau had to be
crossed so they swung into an easy gait. They did not stop until lunchtime.
A hike of this scope might be looked at by a city man as an arduous task.
To the astronauts, it was a lark, not calling for periods of rest.

   Since they had not been exerting themselves, they felt no need to lounge
around after they had eaten lunch so they were on their way within thirty
minutes. Within two hours they could make out the solid wall which
marked the end of the plateau. As they approached closer, they could
make out the entrance to a cave where the level ground met the cliffside.
They were still so far away when they first spotted it that they realized it
had to be much larger than anything they had yet encountered.

   When they reached it, they estimated that its mouth was the width of a
football field. Quincy was about to walk right into it, but Chet held him
back and pointed into its gloom. This cave was quite different from the
others they had used. Vapors, similar to what they had encountered
twenty miles below, before they had seen the mountains, filled its interior.
They stood in the safety of the outside air as they tried to discover the
source of fumes but they could not distinguish any point of origin.
Standing on the brightly lit plateau, they stared into the vapor-filled
darkness and could see nothing but a general fog within the cavern.

   They carried no oxygen. No masks. No cozy helmet to protect them
from poisonous gases. Chet stepped back and, tilting his head, he studied
the cliffs above and to the side of the cave. They were unclimbable.
                          CHAPTER XII


   "Well?" Quincy looked questioningly at Chet.

   "I wouldn't know," Chet replied, fighting to hide the sinking feeling in
the pit of his stomach. So much effort, muscle-tearing work,
spirit-cracking defeats. Carter's sacrifice, all ending at the entrance to a
gas-filled cave. He felt his lip quiver at the emptiness of his heart.

   "Well, it's a cinch we can't stay out here forever," Chet finally said with
determination in his voice.

   "Yeah, but what worries me," Quincy replied, "is that we can stay in
there forever. I mean forever and ever."

   Chet took off his harness and placed it on the ground at one side. He
removed the lamp from the chest brace of the harness and pinned it on his
coveralls, slipping its power pack into a hip pocket.

   "I'm going in there," he announced.

   "Oh no, you're not," Quincy began. "If anyone's going—"

   "Hold it!" Chet cut him short. "No time for argument. You stay right
where you are; I'm going in but I'm going to be holding my breath. I'm
going to see if I can discover anything, Then I'm going to dash out here
before I have to breathe again, so don't stand in the way or I'll come right
through you. Maybe, if we keep doing that over and over again, like
snorkeling, we'll find a way we can go through."

   "Why don't I come with you?" Quincy offered.

   "Because I need a back-up," Chet lied. "If I need resuscitation or
something, I want to know you're here to supply it. So keep alert but don't
get in my way when I come charging out." He took a few deep breaths.

   Then he walked swiftly into the cave, switching his lamp on as he went.
The vapors were not thick as he stood in the middle of them, but his fast
entry made them swirl so that only split-second vision was available. Not
enough to do any good. His lungs signaled their first warning, then he felt
a sensation on the skin of his face which was vaguely familiar but which
he could not place. At first he shrank from it; a throbbing at his temple
made him get ready to make a desperate dash toward the outdoors but
first he touched his fingers to his cheek. Then he hustled out to his friend
and took long, lung-filling breaths.

  "What did you find?" Quincy asked anxiously.

  "Look at my face."

  Quincy inspected it closely. "You're sweating," he announced.

    "I don't know. I don't know," Chet said, sounding very puzzled. "Here,
let's check it out for sure."

  He reached for a tube of food and withdrew it from a pocket in his
partner's harness. He thrust the metal container into his friend's hands.
"Look at it," he said. "It's dry, isn't it?"

  "Yes, naturally," Quincy replied.

  "Okay, let's see."

   Taking another deep breath, Chet went back into the cave and waved
the tube around in the moving vapors. When he returned to Quincy's side,
he held it out to him. "Look," he said. "I never changed my grip on it."

   Quincy was beginning to think that his commanding officer was
starting to wilt under the strain. Then he saw that a thin film had formed
along the entire surface of the tube. The metal was completely fogged over
with a fine mist. Chet ran his finger over one length of it and, when he
removed it, a drop had formed at his fingertip. He held it up to his friend's
nose. "What does it smell like?" he asked.

  "Nothing," Quincy answered.

  "Right. Nothing. Do you know what I think it is?"

   "Water?" Quincy hardly dared ask the question. Chet ran his finger
several times along the tube, gathering as much of the material as he
could. "Let's find out,' he said, plunging his finger into his mouth and
sucking it.

  "What is it?" Quincy asked anxiously.
  "It's a lollipop." Chet smiled.

  Quincy laughed; then he pointed to the cave. "Then you think that
vapor is—"

   "Steam," Chet confirmed, "steam and water vapor." They did not rush
blindly into the interior; they approached it with cautious confidence, but
Chet was right. A number of cracks on the floor and in the walls near the
entrance leaked a thin, hot mist which gathered in the still air. Looking
from inside the cave toward the entrance they could see that, as it seeped
into the outdoors, the hot, dry air sucked it into nothingness instantly. It
was hardly useful to them in its present state, but steam could come only
from water. Somewhere on this grim planet water existed. It might save
their lives, enabling them to exist long after their food ran out. If they
could find it.

   Beyond the area of steam, Chet saw the cave narrowing and sloping
upward as many of the previous caverns and tunnels had done. It was dry.
They found it difficult to leave the newly found moisture, useless as it was.
Although the vapor filled a sizable area, there was not enough of it, nor the
means to condense it, to satisfy the requirements of even one man. It was
a symbol, nothing more, yet hard to leave behind.

   For two more days they climbed, never once breaking out of the rocky
interior. During periods of rest and nourishment they economized by
using only one lamp; they slept in total darkness. At all other times both
lights were needed as they heaved and lifted themselves along the twisting
route. They did not discard the used water tubes, for if they should locate
a supply of the vital fluid they could split the tubes and fashion the soft
metal into usable cups. So they saved the used tubes. It was Chet who
thought of the need for a utensil and it was typical of his foresight.

   Just before stopping for their evening meal, Chet and Quincy came to a
place from which the only exit was a roughly circular hole in the ceiling.
They hoped that this would lead outside but they could see no sign of
daylight and found themselves in still one more tunnel. This emptied into
a large cave and Quincy let out a whoop. There was steam in the cavern.
But more than that, from one of its sides, a rivulet of water bubbled forth
and ran straight across their path, disappearing into a dark hole on the
opposite side. They rushed toward it and Quincy stuck his fingers in the
small stream, then he pulled them out quickly, moaning and blowing on
the reddened skin. The water was boiling even as it ran. Somewhere
above, rain or snow had fallen and seeped into the interior. Volcanic heat,
or perhaps the high temperatures caused by the squeezing of the planetary
matter, had brought it to the boiling point.

   It could be caught and cooled. That was what counted. True, they could
not be sure where the tunnel would lead. True, they had no source of food
and their supply was almost gone. True, their radio was useless within the
tunnel and not much more hopeful outside it. But here there was water
and water alone could stretch their survival for weeks.

   Chet realized the enormous pressure under which he had labored only
when he experienced the light-heartedness which followed the discovery of
a stream of boiling water. They made better time from then on. Their
progress was not markedly better but it was much, much happier. In other
caves, and sometimes in the tunnels, they came across more steam, more
water. Once, as his light shone ahead. Chet stepped into a shallow stream
of it and lumped out shouting at the pain and laughing at the pleasure.

   It was long past their usual time when they finally bedded down for the
night in a tiny cave which featured a steaming stream along one of its
sides. They converted every used tube they had into a receptacle for water
and filled them with the heated liquid. From one patch of soft metal, they
constructed a small funnel. In the morning the water would be cool
enough to drink and they would pour the surplus into empty tubes which
could be capped and carried. Until then they slept in carefree comfort,
allowing the worries of the coming day to drift out of their deep, damp
dreams.

   Water. When they awoke they drank water. And they stored it. And
they splashed what they could not use of the cooled liquid on their faces.
They ate and drank and joked and then they followed the nervous beam of
their lamps until they thought their power packs were failing for the beam
grew dim. But when they turned them off for a moment to test whether
the packs would surge back to strength, they noticed that they were no
longer in total darkness; and then they could make out the walls of the
cave, on one side where the outside light was reflected around the bend.
Not bothering to turn on their lamps, they ran toward the lighted bend,
stumbling in their joy, shouting and yelling against the solid sides of the
cave. Then they were able to see the beautiful archway of light and they
dashed through it, laughing and slapping each other around and dancing
like madmen.
   The astronauts, dazzled by the light, almost drunk with delight, clapped
and howled for a full minute before they suddenly hushed and stared
around them. Incredibly, they had so taken for granted that they would be
in the midst of a bare, rock-studded region that in the joy of bursting out,
they had not even noticed their surroundings.

   They were in a forest… a strange fernlike jungle, not quite like any on
Earth and yet not containing anything alien to Earth—at least as far as
they could see at first. Through the tops of the wide fronds and
thick-leafed branches they could see the eternal layer of cloud which did
not quite reveal the sky or sun, though it was much brighter than the
dusty sky at the base of the giant plateau.

   They were on top of this strange higher level, so abruptly rising from
the normal hundreds-of-degrees hot true surface of Venus. How did this
upthrust come about?

    Chet had speculated, as they had neared the top, that once an asteroid
or unstable moonlet had crashed down on Venus. The impact, the shock,
may have created the vast dust clouds that still swirled about the planet
tens of thousands of years later. The impact may have altered the planet's
rotation so as to cause its slow retrograde action so out of the ordinary for
planetary motions. And the mass of this other world, small as it had been
in solar terms, may have sunk mainly into the core of Venus but still left a
now wind-worn mesa dozens of miles above the normal Venus plain, so
that it was in an area of lower temperatures and above the vicious killing
dust storms of the surface. Either way, things could live here, which
brought up a thought. They dropped to their knees, searching for signs of
insects or other animal existence. They could find none. There were ferns,
all sorts of fungus types such as mushrooms, algae and other growths
which looked familiar; and leafy things which looked like plants but grew
like trees. But not an insect or bug, nor any sign of walking or flying life.
They were on their knees for an hour, searching, picking, calling each
other's attention to one find or another. Then Chet straightened up and
slapped his forehead.

  "The radio!" he cried. "Let's try the radio!"

   At first, the set brought nothing but white noise and the faintest of
distant static. Chet tuned through the various frequencies and suddenly
there it was—the Russian locater beam came through steadily and clearly.
   Then Chet telescoped the flexible rod and switched to the built-in
antenna; this was a loop rig which, tiny as it was, was able to deliver some
of the capabilities of a directional antenna. He listened carefully and found
that even with this reduced pick-up, the signal came through strongly
enough to be readily identifiable. Rotating the set manually made the
signal grow louder or fainter. At its loudest one could assume that it was
at cross angles to the broadcaster's point of origin. Whether it came from
some point in front of the set or behind it could not be determined but
Chet was absolutely certain that it did not originate in the cave from
which they had so recently emerged and therefore it must be coming from
some place ahead, through the labyrinth of greenery.

   Now the astronauts unlimbered their folding knives, which were a cross
between an oversize pocketknife and a dwarfed machete. These proved
their worth in cutting through the more stubborn tangles. Chet had no
idea whether they were heading toward a robot signaler or a Russian
manned base with all the hardware needed to return Earthward. He was
confident that if he was to find an impersonal piece of machinery, he and
Quincy would be able, somehow, to bend it to their will and transmit a
signal which could be picked up by warm-blooded human beings back on
Man's planet.

   If a signal could be transmitted, a rescue craft could be dispatched; it
would arrive in four or five months and even if it could not provide lift-off
facilities, it might bring supplies to tide them over until a full-fledged
rescue could be achieved. At least action would be underway. With these
thoughts in mind, both astronauts kept a sharp eye out for plants they
knew to be edible. Unfortunately, they had never been trained as botanists
and their survival training had not anticipated Venusian vegetation. Some
mushrooms were edible, of course, but even the best contained little
nourishment. And the worst were either sickening or fatal. Chet decided
mushrooms did not rate much time so they concentrated on seeking other
plants upon which a four or five month wait could be based.

   Water was no longer a problem, for much of the country they were
passing through was marshland and moisture was everywhere—not in
lakes or rivers but in the growing things and under their soil. But food and
water were merely items with which to stifle the brain while movement
toward the tantalizing signal continued. Even amid the excitement of
nearing their goal, Chet understood the need for a sensible economy of
energy and he finally called a halt in a mossy clearing. Lunchtime. Or was
it dinner? They did not take note. It was, simply, a time to rest and renew
their energy.

  "Where did all this greenery come from?" Quincy asked, when he had
squeezed a tube of food into his aching stomach.

   "Probably right from Mother Earth," Chet answered slowly. "Since
Venus is so close, it must often pass through the atmospheric wake of the
microscopic debris from our green planet. And where even the slightest
opportunity, climate, dampness exist, such an area must be constantly
seeded from this interplanetary wake. Up here may be the only spot on
Venus where the conditions existed—and the Earth spores did the rest.
You'll notice how all the things growing here are spore-generated—no fruit
trees, nothing complex beyond fungi and ferns."

  "That would explain the lack of bugs and beasts, too," was Quincy's
opinion. "But how about bacteria?"

   "Oh, quite likely they too would be space-borne with the same cargo of
spores. We'd better watch out for that," Chet warned. "But right now what
concerns me is that signal." Chet kept twisting his radio through a small
arc.

   When he had the radio pointed correctly, the signal came in very
strong. There was no question about whether they were heading toward or
away from it. It could be so strong only if they were very close to its point
of origin but it could not tell them whether they were heading directly
toward it, or skirting it by a few yards. If it started to grow weaker, they
would know that they had passed its site and then they would have to
backtrack and embark on a search pattern. Chet knew this and kept alert
for the slightest sign of fading.

   "Chet! Look!" Quincy stood frozen and pointed through the tangled
strands.

  "Hallelujah!" Chet cried.

  They were there.

   In the center of the clearing, a landing vehicle stood poised, its snout
pointing purposefully toward the clouds. Around it lay an organized camp
with supplies stacked neatly in orderly piles. Three pup tents had been
erected but they had been staked out cross-ways to the astronauts' line of
vision and thus they could not be looked into. No signs of life were visible
and Chet figured the Russians must be on some mission in the
surrounding jungle—until he looked closely at the landing vehicle. Beneath
it, he caught a movement.

  "Look!" He prodded his partner. "Isn't that a man under there?"

  "It sure is," Quincy responded.

   A figure was lying stretched full-length between the vehicle's legs. The
figure moved, as if struggling to reach one of the supports. Then Chet saw
that a ladder dangled nearby and this was what the figure sought.

   Neither Chet nor Quincy bothered with their knives as they tore
through the remaining greenery and burst into the clearing shouting.




                        CHAPTER XIII


   They knelt beside the sprawled figure, who looked up at them with
tortured eyes.

  "Americanski?" he gasped.

  "Yes, we're Americans," Chet answered. "What's wrong?"

   "They sent you with medicines?" The Russian was running a high fever;
his skin was burning and his eyes were glazed. It was obvious that he was
marshaling all his strength to focus on the newcomers and communicate
with them.

 "I've got medical supplies," Chet replied, "if that's what you mean.
What seems to be the problem?"

   "Penicillin no good," the Russian croaked; his lips were dry and cracked
from his runaway body heat. He waved weakly in the direction of the tent
area. "They dead," he whispered. Then his eyes rolled up and back into his
head and he passed out.
   The astronauts removed their harnesses so that they could move more
freely. Chet took the container which held their medical supplies, broke
the seal and examined its contents. He was not a doctor and therefore
could not possibly diagnose diseases. His training had been limited to the
treating of injuries which could be seen and understood. One thing he
knew was that the most powerful antibiotic ever developed was Septrin. It
was a combination of a newly-discovered chemical and sulfanimides. Each
was a potent bacteriacide but in combination their action was multiplied
manifold. It had the ability to penetrate quickly into those tissues which
harbored infection and it produced no allergic reactions.

   Chet had no idea what the sick man had meant when he said,
"Penicillin no good." It could mean that penicillin had not worked against
the disease which was consuming him, or that his system could not
tolerate the drug. In either case, Septrin could be administered safely.
Whether it would do any good or not remained to be seen, but at the
moment Chet had no alternative. Septrin was the only antibiotic he had.

   Quincy prepared the Russian, exposing an area of the man's upper rear
thigh. Chet filled a syringe with one and a half times the normal dose,
pushed the needle into the unconscious flesh and squirted the Septrin into
the cosmonaut's system. For good measure, he followed this up with a
tranquilizer. He figured if the cosmonaut had been living in the camp
alone except for the company of the two corpses, he must have been
almost out of his skull with worry, and the high fever must have depleted
his physical reserves. Better that he should sleep while the Septrin fought
his battle against the invading bacteria. They made him as comfortable as
possible, wetting his lips and covering him with the blanket that he had
been dragging around with him. Then they stood up next to the landing
vehicle.

  "What do you suppose is wrong with him?" Quincy asked.

   "That's not my department," Chet said and they both chuckled at the
stale joke which evoked memories of Pat Bradley. "But I'd guess that if all
this stuff—he pointed to the surrounding greenery—"drifted here from
Earth, a few billion bacteria probably made the journey with it. We'll
know in a few hours if we're doing any good."

   When they had concluded an inspection of the camp, the astronauts
came to the conclusion that the sickness, whatever it was, had struck just
after the Russians had completed the construction of their base. Their
main equipment was stacked neatly but it was not unpacked. Two of the
pup tents contained the dead bodies of the cosmonauts. Around them,
empty syringes and half-used bottles of pills testified to the vain struggle
against the killer bacteria. Reaching beneath the light clothing, Chet and
Quincy removed the identification tags of the deceased men. Then, using
tools from the Russian store, they each dug a shallow grave and proceeded
with a burial ceremony, paying honors to brave men who had challenged
the unknown and lost.

  "I wish Carter were with us," Quincy said, biting his lip.

  "In a way, he is," Chet replied solemnly. "He's here because we're here.
He died to make it possible."

   They could not afford the luxury of sentiments, no matter how noble or
deep-felt; there was so much to be done, puzzles to be unraveled, pieces to
be put together. Chet acted to break the mood.

  "Let's take a look at the landing vehicle," he said.

   They climbed up the ladder and into its hatch. It was quite different
from their own. A bit roomier. And everything was distributed differently,
but they could distinguish certain of its equipment. The communication
console, in particular, seemed to present the least problem. A glowing blue
eye indicated that the power was on. Chet sat in front of it and studied its
layout. All the identifying labels were in unintelligible Russian, but he
guessed at the main transmit switch and threw it on. Then he increased
the volume to highest gain and spoke clearly into the microphone.

  "This is Commander Chet Duncan, United States Space Agency, calling
Earth from the Russian base on Venus. Come in please."

   He repeated it several times and waited, then the loudspeakers in the
cabin crackled to life, pouring forth a spate of Russian.

   "Let's get someone who speaks English on the horn," he said with calm
authority. The loudspeakers fell silent for a few minutes and then a voice
which carried only the faintest accent came through.

  "Hello, Americans. This is Soviet Space Headquarters, do you read
me?"
  "Just fine," Chet replied. "Please connect me with the United States
Space Agency."

   Again he waited out the long time-delay. More than five minutes later
the reply returned in a single, shocked word, "What?"

  Chet repeated his original request and waited again.

   "This cannot be done. You are using a Soviet radio frequency and you
will transmit directly to us. We will relay information to the United States
authorities in the proper channels. Proceed with your report. Who are you
and where are you transmitting from and everything else you can tell us.
Over."

   "Okay, buddy," Chet replied firmly, "we're wasting an awful lot of time.
This is Commander Chet Duncan of the United States Space Agency. I'm
broadcasting from the Soviet base on Venus aboard the Soviet landing
vehicle. I will transmit the rest of my report only when Director Creighton
Curtis or Captain Alexander Borg are able to convince me that they are
receiving this broadcast and are in direct communication with me. You
can accomplish a conference hook-up with the greatest of ease, if you want
to. Until that happens, my friend, you will hear nothing more from this
location."

  He flipped off the transmit switch and turned to Quincy, who was
smiling broadly.

  "That ought to shake them," he said.

   At the end of the time-delay, a few sputtering protests came back but
Chet did not respond to them and silence followed. An hour passed before
the loudspeakers came back to life.

  "Command Duncan, this is Soviet Space Headquarters. Director Curtis
and Captain Borg are on this circuit now and wish to speak with you."
There was a short pause.

  "Hi, Chet, this is Curtis. We're plugged in." The voice was familiar.

  "Chet, Borg here. Will you tell us what condition you people are in and
whether you are in a position to effect a return."
   "There you are, Commander," the Russian voice cut in. "You may
proceed with your report, please. Are you in contact with our
cosmonauts?"

   "Before I begin my report, I require an immediate answer to two
questions," Chet said cagily, "and I must tell you that any delay will be
regarded here as failure to respond correctly. First of all, who is Craggy?
And, second, when I say, 'That's not my department,' who am I? Over."

   Chet timed the delay carefully. He did not want to give the Russians
time to seek out answers. Nearly six minutes later, exactly the delay
occasioned by the vast distances between them, Curtis' voice came
through. He was chuckling. "I'm Craggy, Chet, and you're Pat Bradley.
That was good thinking but we're all in this together now. We're receiving
and transmitting on identical frequencies. Our circuit is independent, we
can't be cut off. You can go ahead."

   Chet proceeded to deliver a thumbnail sketch of the events leading up
to the moment. He gave no details, simply listing his landing vehicle as
"inoperable" and Carter Parret as "missing, presumed dead." He
mentioned the long, difficult trek but did not refer specifically to the
strange cliffs or the steam-filled caverns. He felt that all details could wait
for a thorough debriefing session back at headquarters. He knew that the
American team had far more information on the structure of Venus than
the Russians, who had been confined to the one location. It was not up to
him to release any information which did have a direct bearing on the
recovery of the space crews. So he described the camp and explained the
conditions he had found and what steps he had taken.

   "That's all I can tell you at the moment," he concluded. "We'll need
some time to see how our Russian friend shapes up and what can be done
at this end. I suggest that we be given the time to look around and get
things organized. We'll call you back in exactly six hours."

   Curtis and Borg thanked him, wished him the best and asked no
questions. They understood the complexity of the work which faced him
and they did not wish to add to his pressures. The final voice belonged to
the Russian.

   "Thank you very much, Commander. We will await your call but we will
be monitoring continuously. If you need us, we will be here. Out." The
Soviets, too, were in a cooperative mood. They were in a delicate position.
Their radio was being used, their base was functioning as headquarters on
Venus, and yet the American astronauts were in charge. The entire world
was anxiously awaiting word from the planet next door and only the
Americans were capable of providing that word. So the Russians decided
to cooperate with as much grace as possible.

   Quincy found the food. There were powdered eggs, sausages and cans of
broth. Also a stove. Within minutes, he had laid out a feast and he and
Chet wolfed down an incredible meal. To top it off they both enjoyed a cup
of strong Russian tea. They kept a wary eye on the cosmonaut and when
he stirred, they rushed to his side. Although still far from well, his
condition was obviously improved. The carefree sleep while the massive
dose of Septrin was hunting down its prey had cleared the glaze from his
eyes. Chet suggested some broth and the Russian accepted eagerly.

   He turned out to be Leff-tenant-coll-onell Yarmonkine. Chet identified
himself, introduced Quincy and brought the cosmonaut up to date as
regards the radio communication. The broth brought new vigor to the
Russian but Chet insisted that he lie still. He administered another shot of
Septrin, a normal dose, and then announced that, from now on, the drug
could be taken by mouth in pill form. The cosmonaut rubbed the puncture
points and smiled ruefully.

  "That's good," he said. "More better."

  One question had been burning itself into Quincy's mind and he could
wait no longer. "Your landing vehicle," he blurted, "does it work?"

  Colonel Yarmonkine looked extremely grave but he nodded.

  "It work," he said, "but no good. Need rescue."

  "Well, can it take off?" Quincy asked impatiently.

  "It take off."

  "Do the controls work?"

  "Yah."

  "How about the computer? Is it okay?"
  "Computer work good."

  "Well, then, why do you say 'no good'?" Quincy exploded.

   "Because, my friend"—the cosmonaut pointed to the clouds—"Venera
go broke. No more orbit. It makes crash!" He slammed his hand hard onto
the ground. "You got landing vehicle okay?" he asked.

   Quincy shook his head and slapped the ground. "It went broke," he
explained.

   "On the other hand," Chet said quietly, "we have a perfectly good
Mariner. You have a landing vehicle. We have a space craft. Mmm-h. Does
that suggest anything, Quincy?"

   What it suggested was perfectly clear but how to accomplish it was
beyond their ability. The computers in the two vehicles bore no
relationship to each other. Mariner was not constructed to receive a
Russian landing vehicle and the Soviet craft did not have the fittings to
achieve a docking with the American capsule.

   Quincy suggested that perhaps it would be best if they sat tight and
asked the Agency to send up an unmanned Mariner bearing a landing
vehicle which could be deposited by remote control. The Russian base was
not short of food, and some of the growth must prove edible, he argued, so
they would simply have to sweat out the ninety days and then return to
Earth in style.

   Chet quashed that suggestion at once. He reminded Quincy that if the
rescue craft left Earth at that very moment, it would take a hundred and
twenty-five days to arrive, by which time Venus would be fifty million
miles further away from Earth that it had been on the day of their arrival.
Their outgoing trip had taken them ninety days. If they waited for a rescue
craft, the return would require three times that… if the rescue vehicle were
poised on its pad ready to be launched at once. It was out of the question.
The only solution was to reach up, somehow, and latch on to Mariner.

   It was radio contact time and Chet climbed into the cabin, leaving
Quincy with the colonel. He called Earth and waited for the reply. When it
came, he began his second report, starting with news of Colonel
Yarmonkine's improvement. Then he outlined the facts which constituted
their problem and put forth his recommendation that a transfer to the
orbiting Mariner should be attempted.

   Both sides were apparently on the ball because each had assembled a
standby staff of experts, all of whom knew their own equipment
thoroughly. In the United States and the Soviet Union they sank their
teeth into the problem and worried it like a pack of terriers. Chet was told
that they would be back to him in a couple of hours.

   Yarmonkine had drifted off to sleep again. Quincy felt the Russian's
brow and was satisfied that the fever was being reduced. He walked over
to where Chet was standing, near the ladder. From here, they would be
able to hear an incoming signal.

  "It's funny," Quincy said. "We need the Colonel to take us a hundred
and fifty miles and he needs to hitch a ride for the next thirty million
miles. So we're equals."

   They chatted, standing in the soft wind, hearing the gentle rustle of the
waving plants and the outrageous snoring of Colonel Yarmonkine. Then
the call came and they both went scampering up the ladder.

    A rough plan had been worked out. It would take a couple of days to get
it completely analyzed and programmed but the general idea was to get
the three of them into the landing vehicle, lift off and achieve orbit. Any
orbiting pattern around Venus would do. There was a frequency, and how
to obtain it was carefully explained by the Russian, which was compatible
with Mariner's relay mechanism. If they could trip it, then all signals,
remote-control operation and communication, would pass through a
single source and into the Agency's main control room. Chet was told
where to find the Soviet spacesuits and he was asked to check them out.

   He found them and reported that they seemed in good order.

   "Oh good!" Curtis replied in due time. "Then once you've tripped the
relay, all you have to do is get into some kind of stable orbit and transmit
a continuous tone signal as loud as you can. We'll handle the rest of it
from here and we'll bring Mariner in to you. We'll be able to bring it in
real close, but the colonel will have to fly the last few yards manually. Since
both vehicles will be stabilized in the same orbit and at the same speed, it
shouldn't be too tough. When you're within a few feet, you'll use a lifeline.
We'll open up the main vehicle reception hatch on Mariner and you can
make the crossing by using a bottle of oxygen as a jet. First man in fastens
the line and for the others it's a cake walk. Once you're aboard, we'll reel
you back in."

   Both astronauts noticed that Craggy was doing his best to make it
sound like a Boy Scout picnic. Oddly, after what they had been through,
they were almost ready to accept his point of view. Chet acknowledged the
message and then, following the instructions he had been given, he tuned
to the specified frequency and triggered a signal to Mariner's relay.

   They waited in silence until Craggy's voice boomed in at an awful
volume. Chet adjusted the gain immediately to a reasonable level.

   "You've done it! Good! We're working everything out right now. Get the
colonel in good shape and we'll keep in touch."

  The increase in power meant that Mariner was now the link between
Earth and their base on Venus. It made them both feel much more
comfortable.

   When Yarmonkine awakened he said he was hungry. Quincy suggested
broth but he sniffed in disdain. There was a tin of black Russian bread.
That and sausage was what he wanted and he was stubborn about it.

   "It builds blood. Very good," he insisted. Chet motioned with his head
and Quincy supplied the bread and sausage. The colonel put away nearly a
pound of sausage and a half loaf of the strong bread. The astronauts
thought it was foolish to eat so much so soon after a weakening illness, but
the colonel laughed off their worries, washed the meal down with three
cups of tea, gulped two Septrin pills and within five minutes was snoring
louder than before.

  Next day Yarmonkine walked unsteadily around the camp. His legs
were still a little shaky but he was coming back fast.

   Chet and Quincy busied themselves collecting samples of soil and rock
and plants. They held the collection down to a meager pile since it would
have to be transferred to Mariner by hand. Yarmonkine acted like a
vacation-bound tourist snapping pictures of everything in sight, including
the astronauts. Quincy borrowed the camera to take a couple of pictures
of the colonel, who struck a stiff, unbending pose. Before Craggy's final call
came through, Yarmonkine pronounced himself fit. He thumped his barrel
chest. "Could fly all way back, if want."
   Thirty million miles was a long way, but Chet believed the Russian
could probably handle the first hundred and fifty. He told Craggy that they
were ready. The colonel spoke briefly to his own people in Russian, then he
turned his head and, still on the air, he said, "I tell them you good guys."

   With Yarmonkine's help, they suited up and assumed their positions.
Chet, at the communications console, began the transmission of the signal
tone. The colonel ignited the main rockets, keeping the power subdued
while he checked his instruments. Quincy had nothing to do; he was a
passenger.

  "We go two hundred mile straight," Yarmonkine announced, "then we
push her to orbit, okay?"

  "It's okay by me," Quincy said fervently.

  "Yes, Colonel, push away," Chet murmured. "It's time to be getting
home."

   The rockets roared to full power and the landing vehicle rose toward
the clouds. Three of the first six men to touch Venus began the long trip
home.