Destination—Death
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
One man had to die on Uranus' frozen
crust, so that the other might
live—and Bart Caxton had a gun.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The yellow gauge clicked with a tiny sound, and the oxygen tank wentdry. The relay ratchetted slowly, automatically coupled on the nexttank, and the needle on the gauge climbed to high-pressure again.
Bart Caxton watched the needle swing, and beads of perspiration rodehigh on his cheekbones. He twisted the metal mug in his hands, and hisvoice was ragged with welling emotion.
"Three weeks," he said viciously. "And we're five weeks from theshipping lanes. There isn't enough oxygen to carry us back."
"Shut up!" Tom Headley's tone was thin with suppressed anger. "All thedamned talking in the world won't change things. We've got to land now,have got to find the kronalium, or we'll never get back."
He leaned against the wall, searching the cloud-shrouded ground belowthe ship, feeling the uneven drumming of the rockets driving the shipforward. Nerves crawled his back, and sweat slimed his hands. Heshuddered, imagining the horrors that might lie below.
The mug banged against the floor, and Caxton was standing,half-crouched, his heavy face set and stony, his hands riding the buttsof his twin dis-guns.
"I say we go back," he snarled through set teeth.
Headley laughed, and the sound was the only thing that could havebroken the tension of the moment. He tilted his head and laughed untilthe tears ran from his eyes; and slowly the rage faded from Caxton'sface, and his shoulders sagged in weary futility.
"Okay, you win," Caxton said sullenly. "I know I can't force you toturn around, since you're the only one of us that can recognize andwork kronalium for the stern jets. But," and his eyes were swirlingpools of flaming hate. "When we do get back, I'm going to blow a holethrough your back some night."
Tom Headley turned away, the fear piling in his mind until it was achoking cloud that stifled all thought.
"If we get back," he said dully.
He slid his hands over the control panel, adjusting the studs andlevers with a delicate familiarity, striving to bring another ounce ofpower from the single rocket-bank that still functioned. But there wasonly the uneven beat of the rockets vibrating the floor as they haddone for three days now, and no adjustment of the controls could makethem function better.
Bart Caxton sat again, fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, thendropped it to the floor. His face was white beneath its tan, and therewas a haunted desperation in the tightness of his bulky body.
"How long will it take?" he asked. "Will we make it back to Earthbefore—" His voice thickened. "—before we smother to death?"
Tom Headley shrugged. "It'll be tight," he said slowly. "We'll be onhalf oxygen-rations the full trip back. But it can be done; I wentthree months on half-rations once—and then got drunk on Earth's airfor two days after I landed."
"To hell with you and your fancy trips!" The madness was building againin Caxton's mind. "You've been everywhere—but you ain't been here;you don't know what Uranus is like, nobody does."
He lunged to his feet, pressed close to the port. His breath cloudedthe quartzite pane, and he polished the glass impatiently.
"Look at th