Destination—Death
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
One man had to die on Uranus' frozen
crust, so that the other might
live—and Bart Caxton had a gun.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The yellow gauge clicked with a tiny sound, and the oxygen tank went dry. The relay ratchetted slowly, automatically coupled on the next tank, and the needle on the gauge climbed to high-pressure again.
Bart Caxton watched the needle swing, and beads of perspiration rode high on his cheekbones. He twisted the metal mug in his hands, and his voice was ragged with welling emotion.
"Three weeks," he said viciously. "And we're five weeks from the shipping lanes. There isn't enough oxygen to carry us back."
"Shut up!" Tom Headley's tone was thin with suppressed anger. "All the damned talking in the world won't change things. We've got to land now, have got to find the kronalium, or we'll never get back."