Venus Enslaved
By MANLY WADE WELLMAN
What chance had the castaway Earthman and
his crossbow-weaponed Amazons against the
mighty Frogmasters of the Veiled Planet?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Black velvet infinity all around, punctured and patterned with themany-hued jewels of space—comforting, somehow, because they made thesame constellation patterns you used to see on Earth. There was theDipper, there Scorpio, there Orion. But the twinkle was shut off, asthough every star had turned cold and silently watchful toward yourimpudent invasion of emptiness.
So big was the universe that the little recess which did duty forcontrol-room, observation-point and living-cabin seemed even smallerthan it was; which was very small indeed. Planter forgot the dizzylightness of head and body, here beyond gravity, and turned hiswondering eyes outward from where he lay strapped in his spring-jointedhammock, toward the firmament, and decided that there was nothing inall his past life that he would change if he could.
"Check blast-tempo," came the voice of Disbro just beyond his head,a high, harsh, commanding voice. "Check lubrication-loss and checksun-direction. Then brace yourself. We may land quicker than wethought."
Planter leaned toward the instrument panel that covered most of thebulkhead to the right of his hammock. The pale glow from the dialshighlighted his face, young, bony, intent. "Blast-tempo adequate," hecalled back to Disbro. "Lubrication-loss about seven point two. Threepoint nine six degrees off sunward. Air loss nil."
"Who asked for air loss?" snubbed Disbro from his hammock forward.He was leaner than Planter, taller, older. Even in his insulatedcoveralls, bulking against whatever temperature or pressure dangermight be threatened by the outer space, he was of a dangerous eleganceof figure and attitude. His face, framed in tight, cushioned helmet,was so narrow that it seemed compressed sidewise—dark eyes crowdedtogether with only a disdainful blade of nose between them, a mouthshort but strong, a chin like the pointed toe of a stylish boot, acropped black mustache. Back on lost Earth, Disbro had frightened menand fascinated women. His cunning crime-administration had been almosttoo neat for the police, but not quite; or he would not have been here,with his life barely held in his elegant fingertips.
"Venus plumb center ahead," he told Planter. "Have a look."
That last as if he were granting a favor. Planter twisted in thehammock. He saw the taut-slung cocoon that would be Disbro's nettedbody, the control board like a bigger, more complex typewriter whereDisbro could reach and strike key-combinations to steer, speed orotherwise maneuver the ship.
Beyond, a great round port, at its middle a disk the size of atable-top. Against the black, airless sky, most of that disk lookedas blue as the thinnest of milk. One smooth edge was brightened tocream—the sunward limb of Venus. But even the dimmer expanse showedfluffy and gently rippling, a swaddling of opaque cloud.
"That," said Disbro, "is our little gray home in the west."
"I wonder what's underneath the clouds," mused Planter, for themillionth time.
"All those science-pots, sitting home on the seats of their expensivestriped pants, wonder that," snarled Disbro. "That's why they senteight rockets before us, smack into the cloud. That's why, with eight