THE VICTORY OF KLON
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
"Behold, I bring my people light!" But
it was a deadly triumph for Klon, wriggling,
slimy lord of eternally-veiled Venus.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Klon fled from fern to fern like a drifting shadow, circling the new clearing that had been torn in the steamy jungle by the gleaming monster that had come from the eternal fog that clothed his world. He halted now and then, slipped into the stagnant water that covered nine tenths of the planet, and listened for the slightest sound that would warn him of a hidden watcher spying on his movements.
Satisfied that he was alone in the jungle swamp, he edged closer to the clearing whose edge was a charred and ragged circle. His lidless eye gleamed phosphorescently in the darkness that never changed, bringing into sharp detail the shadows that were two shades of blackness for there were no colors on his earth.
He slipped over the burned ground, wincing at the bruises given him by the unaccustomed hardness beneath his body. He hissed a bit in anger that he should suffer so, then went rigid as the thing happened again.
An amazingly light shadow had suddenly come into being on the roundness of the gleaming visitor from somewhere above.