CHIMERA WORLD
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
Don Denton had walked into the weirdest
enigma he had ever encountered. Dead men
lived, and ships vanished without sound.
And to top everything, when he tried to
unravel the puzzle—he found that he
had been dead for more than a week.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Don Denton, trouble shooter for the Inter-World Mining Corporation, watched the sailors stowing the supplies aboard his small scout rocket, checking the items from the manifest sheet as they were packed in the storage compartments.
"That takes care of that," he said finally, signing the sheet with his thumbprint. "Now, I'll be on my way."
The Skipper nodded, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose so," he agreed. "Are you sure you won't stay to dinner? I've got a cargo of Martian panyanox that should taste plenty good to you after two months of spacing on vitamins."
Don Denton grinned, scrubbed a heavy hand through the reddish, curly mop of hair that flamed above his craggy face. He shrugged, the leather jacket growing taut across his deceptively wide shoulders.
"Nothing I'd like better," he said, "but I've got orders to get to Venus and find out why the Lanka shipments haven't been coming through on schedule."