At last, he burst from the matted jungle into a clearing that led to the water's edge. He came to a stop, the sudden cessation of movement sending him to his hands and knees. From that position, he rolled until he was sitting, and the twin guns roared a steady stream of death at the fantastic creatures surging toward the half-buried space ship close at hand.
The Venusian creatures were like things out of a nightmare. They scuttled toward the ship like crabs on great jointed legs. Their bodies were covered with hair, and the marine worms within the hair made the beasts glow like great fluorescent lights.
Each had a globular body, from which a great pupilless eye stared blindly at the ship. They attacked in wave after wave, their numbers rolling from the turbulent sea in an apparently inexhaustible stream. The only sound they made was an almost inaudible scream that drove through Val Kenton's brain like a needle of fire.
He swung his guns, blasting creature after creature out of existence, shuddering at the horribleness of the scene, wondering if the creatures could ever be stopped.
Disruptors roared from the ship; but the angle made by the ship's landing was such that accurate firing was impossible. The shots flashing from the control cabin's ports could cover but a small portion of the attackers.
Val Kenton fired with increasing speed, the disruptor ray clearing a ragged hole in the monsters. In a detached sort of way, he saw one of the furry crabs clamber up the side of the ship. He saw it squat and a blue liquid pour from its body. He blew the creature into atoms, gaped in amazement when he saw the hole the liquid had eaten in the Permalloy metal of the ship. Incredulity lay deep in his eyes—for he knew only too well that even hydrofluoric acid had no effect on the metal of which patrol cruisers were made.
And then he was too busy to think. The Venusian beasts turned as though by an instinctive command and hurtled toward himself. He lifted his guns, erased the leaders as fast as they came. One gun went dead in his hand, and the ray of the other paled into redness. He came to his feet, dropped the hand guns, whipped the rifle from his back. He drew the muzzle flame like a spray of water across the screaming horrors that plunged at him, his mouth open in a soundless snarl, his eyes narrowed and vicious.
And so suddenly that he did not comprehend it for a moment, the attack was over, the nightmarish Venusians streaming back into the sea. Within a split-second, except for the obscene twitching of dead beasts on the steaming ground, the beach was empty.
Val Kenton sank onto his heels, unclamped his stiff fingers from the rifle. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, his breath hard and shallow. He felt reaction set in, and momentarily wished that he had a whiff of gailang gas to steady his nerves.