The Thing of Venus

by Wilbur S. Peacock

At last, he moved his arms and legs tentatively, swearing amazedly when he found that, other than terrible aching bruises, he was unhurt. He came to his feet, examined the instrument panel, marvelling that his last conscious act had been the closing of switches on the panel.

He moved slowly, unscrewed the back panel, wriggled into the confines of the rocket chambers in the tail of the ship. He shook his head dully, when he discovered the fused catalyst feed. So seldom was such an accident, the ship's repair locker held nothing that could replace the feed.

He crawled back into the control cabin, slumped in the pilot's seat, fumbled for a cigarette. He felt whipped then, felt beaten in a way that he had never sensed. And then, moments later, he ground out the cigarette, opened the weapon cabinet.

He buckled on the twin hand guns at his waist, slung a disruptor rifle over his shoulder, then filled his pockets with condensed food. He filled a canteen, looped it over his free shoulder, stood for a long moment peering around the safety of the cabin.

Then he uncogged the entrance port, dropped lightly to the spongy ground. He crouched where he had fallen, his eyes flicking through the tangled growth, the twin guns in his hands, as he waited for the slight sound that might betoken a hidden enemy. He felt perspiration gathering on his forehead, dashed it away with the back of one hand. The air was sweet in his nostrils after the renewed air of the ship, and when he came slowly to his feet, he felt a surge of power in his body such as he had never known, due to the weakness of the gravity.

He moved from the safety of the ship, flicked the control of one gun until it gave only a narrow, slicing beam. He used the gun as an Earth native might use a bush knife, the pale beam cutting a path soundlessly before him. He moved swiftly along the path he created, alert for the first signs of danger, glancing now and then at the compass strapped to his wrist.

For minute after minute he walked, his mind intent with the problem that faced him. No longer was it a simple attempt to rescue three people from an unfriendly planet; now, if he failed, his life would be forfeit along with the others. His only chance of success lay in finding the others' ship and removing its catalyst feed for replacement of his wrecked one. That is, if the expedition's ship was so damaged that it could not fly, which was self-evident.

Val Kenton spat thoughtfully, paced steadily forward. He sensed vague superstitious terror tugging at his mind when he felt the matted jungle pressing at him from all sides. He peered about, wonder in his eyes, when he saw the gigantic ferns and strange unreal trees that grew in lush aboriginal splendor. He stopped in horror, when the blood-red blossom of a monster plant bent toward him, recognizing that it must be some weirdly evolved cousin of the fly-trap plant on Earth.

He side-stepped instinctively, stopped with his back against the scaly trunk of a giant fern. For the plant stretched toward him to the full extent of its pale stem, and he could see, deep within the orifice of the crimson blossom, an oozing of juices from back in the cup.

Val Kenton gagged at the simple horror of the blind insensate greed of the plant. He lifted his disruptor, drew the knife edge of its beam in a slashing movement across the stem. There was the faint vibration of a shrill note from the plant, then sap spurted from the severed stem—pumping as though from a beating heart!