The Golden Amazons of Venus Part 1

The Golden Amazons of Venus.

by John Murray Reynolds.

[Sidenote: Dakta death, horrible beyond the weirdest fever-dreams of Earth-men, faced s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+p Commander Gerry Norton. The laconic interplanetary explorer knew too much. He stood in the dynamic path of Lansa, Lord of the Scaly Ones, the crafty monster bent on conquering the fair City of Larr and all the rich, shadowless lands of the glorious Amazons of Venus.]

The s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p _Viking_--two hundred feet of gleaming metal and polished duralite--lay on the launching platform of New York City's munic.i.p.al airport. Her many portholes gleamed with light. She was still taking on rocket fuel from a tender, but otherwise all the final stores were aboard. Her helicopters were turning over slowly, one at a time, as they were tested.

In the _Viking's_ upper control room Gerry Norton and Steve Brent made a final check of the instrument panels. Both men wore the blue and gold uniform of the Interplanetary Fleet. Fatigue showed on both their faces, on Steve's freckled pan and on Gerry Norton's lean face. Gerry in particular had not slept for thirty-six hours. His responsibility was a heavy one, as commander of this second attempt to reach the planet Venus from Earth. Well--he would have a chance to catch up on sleep during the long days of travel that lay ahead.

The two officers finished their inspection, and strolled out onto the open deck atop the vessel. For a while they leaned on the rail, staring down at the dense crowds that had thronged the airport to see the departure of the _Viking_. In this warm weather the men wore only light shorts and gayly colored s.h.i.+rts. The women wore the long dresses and metal caps and thin gauze veils that were so popular that year. Around the fringes of the airport stood the ramparts of New York's many tall buildings, with the four hundred story bulk of the Federal Building a giant metal finger against the midnight sky.

"When are we going to pull out, Chief?" Steve Brent asked.

"As soon as the s.h.i.+p from Mars gets in and Olga Stark can come aboard."

"Funny thing--I've never been able to like that gal!" Steve said. Gerry smiled faintly.

"That puts you in the minority, from all reports. However--that's aside from the point. She's the most capable s.p.a.ce-pilot in the whole fleet, and we need her. What's she like personally?"

"Tall, dark, and beautiful--with a nasty tongue and the temper of a fiend," Steve said. He yawned, and changed the subject. "Y'know--I've just been wondering what really did happen to the _Stardust_!"

Gerry shrugged without replying. That was a question that was bound to be in the minds of all members of this expedition, whether or not they put it in words. Travel between Earth and Mars had been commonplace for more than a generation now, but there had not yet been any communication with Venus--that cloud-veiled planet whose orbit lay nearer the sun than that of earth. Two years ago the exploring s.h.i.+p _Stardust_ had started for Venus. She had simply vanished into the cold of outer s.p.a.ce--and never been heard from again.

Gerry Norton thought the _Viking_ would get through. Science had made some advances in these past two years. His s.h.i.+p would carry better rocket fuel than had the _Stardust_, and more efficient gravity plates.

The new duralite hull had the strength to withstand a terrific impact.

They would probably get through. If not--well--he had been taking chances all his life. You didn't go into the Interplanetary Service at all if you were afraid of danger.

"There comes the s.h.i.+p from Mars now!" Steve Brent said, suddenly pointing upward.

A streak of fire like a shooting star had appeared in the sky far above.

It was the rocket blast of the incoming s.p.a.ce liner. Yellow flames played about her bow as she turned on the reverse rockets to reduce the terrific speed. The roar of the discharge came down through the air like a faint rumble of distant surf. Then the rockets ceased, and the s.h.i.+p began to drop down as the helicopters were unfolded to take the weight and lower her easily through the atmosphere.

"It won't be long now!" Steve said in his low, deep, quiet voice.

"Aye, not long!" boomed a deep voice behind them, "but I'm thinking it will be a long day before we return to this braw planet of ours!"

Angus McTavish, chief engineer of the _Viking_, was a giant of a man with a voice that could be heard above the roar of rocket motors when he chose to raise it. He had a pair of very bright blue eyes--and a luxuriant red beard. There were probably no more than a dozen full sets of whiskers worn in the earth in this day and age, and McTavish laid claim to the most imposing.

"Fuel all aboard, Chief," he said, "The tender's cast off and we're ready to ride whenever you give the word."

"Just as soon as these people come aboard."

"Tell me, Mac," Steve Brent interposed, "Now that we're all about to jump off into the unknown--just why _do_ you sport that crop of whiskers?"

"So I won't have to b.u.t.ton my collar, ye f.e.c.kless loon!" the big engineer replied instantly.

"The Scots are a queer race."

"Aye, lad--the salt o' the earth. We remain constant in a changing world. All the rest of you have forgotten race and breed and tradition, till ye've become as alike as peas in the same pod all over the Earth.

We of Scotland take pride in being the exception."

"And in talking like some wild and kilted highlander of the twentieth century! You're out of date, Angus!"

"If you two are going to argue about that all the way to Venus," Gerry said grimly, "I'll toss you both out and let you drift around in s.p.a.ce forever."

"Speaking of the Twentieth Century," Steve said, "one of the ancient folk who lived in that long ago and primitive time would be surprised if they could see the New York of today. Why, they made more fuss about one of their funny old winged air-s.h.i.+ps flying the Atlantic than we do about a voyage to Mars or the Moon."

The s.h.i.+p from Mars settled gently down on the concrete landing platform, and her helicopters ceased to turn. From a hundred nozzles along the edge of the platform came hissing streams of water, playing upon the hull that had been heated by its swift pa.s.sage through the outer layers of the Earth's atmosphere. Then, as the hull cooled, the streams of water died away and the doors opened. The pa.s.sengers began to emerge.

A platoon of police, their steel helmets gleaming in the glow of the lights, cleared a path through the crowd for a small group that hurried across to the waiting _Viking_. A few minutes later three newcomers came aboard. All wore the blue and gold uniform of the Interplanetary Fleet.

The two men were Martians, thin and sharp featured, with the reddish skin of their race. The other was an Earth woman. Olga Stark stood nearly as tall as Gerry Norton's own six feet. She had a pale skin, and a ma.s.s of dark hair that was coiled low on her neck.

"Pilot-Lieutenant Stark and Flight-Ensigns Tanda and Portok reporting aboard, sir," she said quietly.

"You'll find the officers' quarters aft on B-deck. I'm calling a conference in the chart room as soon as we get clear of the stratosphere."

Gerry Norton stood on the little platform at the top of the control room, under a curved dome of transparent duralite that gave him a clear view along the whole length of the _Viking's_ super-structure. The last member of the expedition was aboard, the airport attendants had all stepped back. The time of departure had come at last!

"Close all ports!" he snapped.

"Close ports it is, sir," droned Chester Sand, the Safety Officer.

Warning bells rang throughout the s.h.i.+p. Tiny green lights came winking into view on one of the many indicator panels.

"All ports closed, sir!" the Safety Officer sang out a minute later. For a moment Gerry bent over the rail of the platform and himself glanced down at the solid bank of green lights on the board.

"Start helicopters!" he ordered.

There was a low humming. The s.h.i.+p began to vibrate gently. From his place in the dome, Gerry could see the _Viking's_ dozen big helicopters begin to spin. Faster and faster they moved as Angus McTavish gave his engines full power. Then the s.h.i.+p rose straight up into the air.

"Here we go, boys--Venus or bust!" Steve Brent muttered under his breath, and a low chuckle swept across the control room.

The lighted surface of the airport fell swiftly away beneath them. The myriad lights of New York were spread out like a jeweled carpet in the night, dwindling and seeming to slide together as the drive of the _Viking's_ powerful motors carried her steadily upward. At the three thousand-foot level they pa.s.sed a traffic balloon with its circle of blue lights, and the signal blinker spelled out a hasty "Good Luck!"

At the thirty thousand-foot level they pa.s.sed an inbound Oriental & Western liner, bringing the night mail from China. She hung motionless on her helicopters to let the _Viking_ pa.s.s, her siren giving a salute of three long blasts while her pa.s.sengers crowded the decks to cheer the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p. After another ten thousand feet they were above ordinary traffic lanes. The gla.s.s windows of the control room were beginning to show a film of condensing moisture, and Steve Brent brought the heavy duralite panes up into place.

"Stand by rocket motors!" Gerry commanded. "Stand by to fold helicopters. Ready? _Contact!_"

There was a m.u.f.fled roar. The _Viking's_ nose tilted sharply upward.

Momentarily the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p trembled like a living thing. Then she shot ahead, while the helicopters dropped down into recesses within the hull and duralite covers slid into place over them. Gerry climbed down from the dome into the main control room. Momentarily he glanced at the huge bra.s.s and steel speed indicators.