THE RHIZOID KILL
By JACK BRADLEY
Rhizoids—fabulous gems that harnessed every
brilliant sun of the Galaxy—these were the kill-stones
that sent space rat Mallard racing for the
forbidden swamp belt of Mercury ... into a lurid
land that beckoned the get-rich-quick riff-raff.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories November 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The first half mile into the swamp hadn't been so bad, but now Mallardbegan to feel really afraid. There were things in here that no spacemanhad ever seen and against some of them the small blaster on his hipwould be about as effective as a popgun.
A little way ahead of him, he could dimly see the naked body of theMercurian swamp girl and he swore enviously at the way she slippedthrough the dense fern growth, her webbed feet gripping the mud firmly.Once she held up her hand warningly and he slipped down behind a fallentree fern to let a huge plant slug glide past. The thing was nearlyforty feet in length and it could move with the speed of an expresstrain.
When it was gone, he got up and followed the swamp girl again. Hehugged the helmet to him closer and grinned at the feel of the strangemetal in his hands. That helmet was his one last chance for all thethings he had ever wanted and he would hold on to it as long as he hadlife left. With that helmet he could be free of Bill Olger and D'ulio,the Martian, and go back to Earth with more wealth than a space ratlike himself had ever brought back. It was now, he reflected, one monthfrom the night he had met them, back in Venusport....
Mallard was sitting at a table in the Green Star the night they camein. Sitting there, drinking Sre, the raw native wine, and wondering ifhe could afford another glass of the stuff. He was surrounded by theriff-raff of the spaceways and his nerves were raw from a week-longbout with the Sre.
The two men came in, looked the dingy place over for a moment, thenmade directly for his table. They were both big men, the Earth man ared-haired giant with the cold eyes and the hard, ruthless face ofthe space rat. Mallard had come to know plenty of men like him sincehe had been kicked out of the Patrol. Hard, bitter men, shrewd andutterly conscienceless. The Martian beside him he hardly noticed.His red, skeleton-like face was the typical Martian mask and Mallardwasted no time trying to form an estimate of him. No Earth man everwould know what a Martian was like until he'd lived beside him foryears—sometimes not even then. And, anyway, Mallard wasn't toointerested in either of them. Not even when they came over and sat athis table.
"I'm Bill Olger," the Earth man began without preliminaries. "Thisis my friend, D'ulio, one of the smartest scientists Mars has everproduced. We know about you. You're George Mallard, owner of the SpaceLark."
"If you're getting ready to make a touch you can save your breath,"Mallard said sourly. "I haven't got a hundred credits to my name."
"We're not getting ready to make a touch, Mallard," Olger said. "We'regetting ready to let you in on the chance of a lifetime. Now, do youwant to let us buy you a drink of something decent while we tell youabout it, or would you rather keep on sitting here alone drinking thisslop?"
Mallard looked from his hard face to the spidery red mask of theMartian, then shrugged his shoulders and pushed out his empty glass.Olger beckoned to the Venusian waiter and presently Mallard was sippinga glass of pale green brandy that soothed his raw nerves like thealmost forgotten touch of an Earth woman's hands. Bill Olger yanked hischair closer and