He was unnecessary. The first two had already
convinced Shoemaker there was only one cure for
his condition—and that was to get the hell away
from space-ships and onto a nice red wagon.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Shoemaker sat in the open sallyport of the ship and looked gloomilyat a pale blue-green seascape, parted down the middle by a ghostlyshoreline. The sea was a little greener, and the land was a littlebluer; otherwise there was no difference to the eye. Once in a whilea tiny breeze came in from the sea, and then the stink changed fromsulphur to fish.
Venus, he decided, was a pest-hole. If he'd known it would be likethis, he would have socked old Davies in the eye when he came tohim with his damned plans. And then he'd have got roaring drunk tocelebrate his escape.
Drunk.... Boy, he'd been squiffed last night! And every night, exceptone horrible period when they'd found his cache and it had been threedays before he could shut off the engines and make more. Thinking ofthat, he shuddered. Better get started early tonight; no telling whenthe others would be back.
He rose and went back into the stifling heat of the ship. No coolingsystem in the thing; that's one item he hadn't thought of. But then, tohear Davies and Burford talk, Venus was going to be a kind of Turkishparadise, full of pomegranates and loose women. Nothing had been saidabout the temperature or the smells.
He walked down the narrow passageway to the hold, entered one of thecompartments, and stopped before a patched section of the bulkhead.The ship was practically nothing but patches, and this looked nodifferent from the rest. But it was.
Shoemaker stuck a fingernail under the lower end of the metal strip,and pulled. The strip came loose. He got his finger all the way underand lifted. The soldered edges tore away like so much glue.
He caught the section as the top came away, and laid it aside. Behindit, in a space where plastic filler had been removed, were stackedbottles of a colorless liquid. He took one of them out and shoved itinto his back pocket. Then he picked up the patch sheet and, holding itin place with one hand, took a metal-foil tube out of his pocket withthe other. The gunk in the tube was his own discovery; a phony solderfluid that was pretty nearly as strong as the real thing, except thatthe slightest leverage would pull it loose. He smeared a thin film ofthe stuff all around the patch, held the sheet for a few seconds morewhile it dried, then stood off to examine his work. Perfect.
The bottle in his pocket was uncomfortably warm against his thin rump.Well, he could fix that, too. He went down the passage to the nextcompartment, jockeyed an oxygen tank around until he could get at thepetcock, and held the bottle in a thin stream of the compressed gas. Ina minute the liquor was chilled.
He was sweating prodigiously. Gasping a little, he went back to thesallyport and sat down. He settled his broad back against the doorway,put the neck of the bottle against his pursed lips, and drank.
He was lowering his head after the fifth long swallow, when he sawsomething move against the misty boundary of sea and land. He followedit with his eyes. His long "Ahhh" of satisfaction ended in the sound ofa man treacherously struck in the belly.
A little green man was standing there, a little poisonous-green manwith blue-green whiskers and eyes like emeralds. He was about fourteeninches high, counting his big rabb