Plucked from the space-lanes by its ravening
magnetism, the two intrepid Terrans defied the
death of this deadly radio-active worldlet
by playing games with the roly-poly natives!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jonathan Drake swam back to consciousness as a bubble rises throughmolasses—slowly, and with great effort. His arms lay heavily on thepadded rests of the shock-chair, and his lids drooped persistentlydespite the shouted commands of his brain. A bubble of air rosereluctantly up his throat to operate his paralyzed vocal cords.
"Doc," he croaked. "Doc?" The words bounced off the polished metalwalls of the room. There was no sound after that but the soft purr ofthe control board.
Jonathan walked his hand along the arm rest like a spider, each fingera leg drawing the weighted hand a step further like a tremendous body.Finally a finger found the cup of the release button, and the pneumaticpads fell free of thigh, belly and chest. He slid the button forwardand the shock-seat tilted him forward and decanted him gently onto thefloor.
He could hear Doc breathing now, the sound of it harsh above the quiethumming of the dynamics, and he rolled on over and heaved his body offthe floor with both arms.
"Puny," he muttered to himself. "Weak as a baby. Must have been a roughlanding."
He fought his way to his hands and knees, but his body rebelled at thetask of rising to his feet.
This is getting to where it ain't funny, he thought, and scrambledwith great effort to the control board.
He had a look at the G-gauge and whistled softly. 3.4! Leaping Luna,no wonder! He forced his hand to the knurled knob of the control leverand clicked it down four notches. He held it there a moment, then easedit back a fraction by twisting the knob. The dynamics' hum rose a noteand the weight began to fall from him.
He stepped swiftly to the other shock-chair and released therestrainers with one impatient stabbing finger. Doc had a bluish tingeabout his mouth and his breathing was a bit ragged.
"Doc," said Jon sharply. He thumbed one of Doc's eyes open and studiedthe pupil. "Too much deceleration," he muttered, and wheeled to theblack kit on the wall.
His eye caught the visi-plate over the control panel in passing, andhe gave the bleak plain it showed a casual glance. Something round andblack traveled across the field of vision, but was gone almost as soonas it caught his attention. He flicked a quick look to see that theautomatic cameras were recording, and returned to Doc.
Doc made no response to the jab of the needle, but within ten secondsthe color flooded to his face and he snapped his head up with alertattention.
"We made it," said Doc with instant comprehension. Doc was bald as anegg, though he was not yet thirty-five, and his lips were red and fulland smiled easily. Behind those twinkling blue eyes—as Jon knew fullwell—was a brain that operated at its peak during stress, a mind thatknew neither dismay nor panic.
His eyes twinkled now with sharp inquiry. "How does it look, Jon?"
The lean dark-haired pilot shrugged. "I haven't seen much of it yet.Instruments show that we aren't cracked—outer and inner hulls stillholding pressure. Tremendous gravity, no atmosphere. Entire areaslightly radio-active. Haven't had time to check the recording tapesyet. I blacked out about the same time you did."
Doc caught his lower lip between his white even teeth for a moment.Then he tilted himself ou