THE MERCURIAN
By FRANK BELKNAP LONG
For ages Mankind labelled Mercury a dead
world—a red-hot, seething outpost of hell.
Too late Rawley learned of the hideous life
that molten, steaming planet spawned!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We stood before the airlock, the old man and I, and watched them go out. Ellison was a granite man and I was just the lad who threw the switches.
I was new at it. They had sent me out with a pat on the back and a commission, but I didn't feel like a Mercury run officer. Mining uranium on the Sun's firstling was no job for a green kid of twenty-two. Outside were lakes of molten zinc and a temperature of 790 degrees Fahr.
No part of that temperature seeped into us, but just knowing it was out there was spine-chilling. I am not being facetious. To keep from thinking of the hot face we thought of the cold face, and you can't imagine extremes of cold without feeling shivery. Out on the cold face were other miners, working under conditions I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. They had the cold of open space to contend with, and a little of that seeped in.
The Commander was passing out advice to each of the miners as they stepped into the lock.