Don Denton grinned. "There's nothing to be afraid of on Venus," he said confidently. "I've been there half a dozen times, and all I've found was a water world, with very little land. About the only life on the planet is of a fish type, which lives deep in the oceans."
"That's what my father told me."
"Well, he was exactly right; it's about the deadest world I've seen. There are nine patches of land, probably mountain tops, and each of them are covered with Lanka plants. I suppose you know that that is what your father is doing there—that is, he's cutting and rendering the plants for their oil?"
Jean nodded. "Yes, he told me. But after all—"
She screamed suddenly, clutched wildly at the arms of her seat. And the motion sent her flying into the air, where she struggled for a balance that wasn't there.
"Easy," Don Denton said, reached out, drew her back to her seat. "It's that blasted gravity rotor again!"
He went sideways from his seat, catching a flashlight from a wall-clip as he did so, then pulled himself by the wall hand rail toward the rear of the cabin.
"I'm going to be ill," Jean said weakly.
"Chin up," Don Denton said sharply. "I'll have everything all right in a moment. The clutch on the gravity rotor is about shot, and it quits on me every now and then. When the gravity gets back to normal, you'll feel all right again."