

















                          Assignment on Venus

                            By CARL JACOBI

               Simms had the toughest assignment of his
                 career. He must fight his way through
                 Venusian intrigue to deliver a sealed
                  cylinder--a cylinder that held his
               dishonorable discharge from the service.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories Fall 1943.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Simms rested his paddle across the thwart and let the clumsy _jagua_
drift. Ahead, where the indigo swamp growth thinned, an abuttment
of white metal projected from the water, its near end forming a
wafer-like conning tower.

Half-way Jetty at last! Two grueling weeks through Venus' Blue Mold
Swamp were behind him. Even if he knew that this station marked the
half way point to his final disgrace and humiliation, he could at least
rest here, free from the incredible dangers of the marsh.

He swung the dugout to a landing, wearily stretched cramped legs and
headed down the catwalk. Before him the door of the jetty opened and
three men appeared in the entrance.

Earthmen!

"Halleck! Gately! Sterns!" Simms cried. "What the devil are you doing
here?"

The taller of the men held the door open wider. "Come in, Simms," he
said. "We've been expecting you."

Inside the spherical room the air was warm and dry. Simms unhooked his
dehydration mask and surveyed the three quietly.

They weren't a lovely trio. Halleck was tall and swarthy with dark
eyes and thin lips. He wore a stained rain-helmet and flexible swamp
boots. Gately undoubtedly had Martian blood in his veins. And Sterns,
a typical space-rat from the slums of Venus City, bore an old heat-gun
scar across his face.

"I thought the Halleck Development Company was heading north," Simms
said. "That's what you told the Commandante at Post One."

Halleck smiled. "We told your Commandante a lot of things that suited
our purpose."

Simms stirred uneasily. "You also said you were geologists, looking for
sedimentary deposits."

"Part of which is quite true." Halleck lit a cigarette deliberately,
then nodded to Gately who drew from his pocket a small bag. The man
jerked the draw string and permitted a dozen yellowish lumps to spill
out on the table.

"_Deleon_ Salts," Halleck said shortly.

Ice touched Simms' spine. He had of course seen these ochre crystals
before, while on patrol duty in native Kamali villages. But in the
possession of Earth men....

"_Deleon_ Salts," Halleck said again, blowing a shaft of smoke
ceilingward. "The stuff that holds the secret of rejuvenation for the
Kamalis. We're going to get a lot of it, ship it back to Earth and sell
it for a high price."

"But ... but good Lord, you can't do that...."

"I know what you're going to say," interrupted Halleck, "that although
these salts enable the Kamalis to maintain eternal life, they mean
instant death to a person of Earth. Well, we've taken care of that.
We've worked out a process that makes them harmless for a year."

"And after that...?" Simms persisted.

Halleck shrugged. "After that we'll have made our pile. We're simply
selling a drug guaranteed to erase the ravages of time. It'll go like
wildfire."

       *       *       *       *       *

Up on the wall a mercury clock pulsed rhythmically, and below the floor
level sounded the faint drone of the dehydrators. Motionless, Simms sat
there. Like wildfire, Halleck had said. And the words were only too
true. The quest for perpetual youth was eternal. Earth men still envied
the two hundred year old Martians, the three hundred year old Jovians.
Tell them that these _Deleon_ Salts were both harmless and effective,
and the results would be cataclysmic.

Every person on Earth would demand some of the crystals. And in a
year....

"Where did you get these salts?" Simms asked.

For answer Halleck reached forward and plucked something from the
Venusian Service man's belt before the latter could restrain him.
Capped and sealed at both ends, it was an official mold-proof message
cylinder.

"Three weeks ago," Halleck said, tapping the cylinder with his finger,
"you left Post One with this tube bound for Venusian headquarters
at BeTaba. You were sent in person because any radio or visiscreen
communication would of course be intercepted by the Kamali Oligarchs.

"The tube contains two messages. One asks for reinforcements at the
Post because of a recent epidemic of Mold Fever. The other demands your
resignation because of insubordination. Insubordination--refusing to
obey orders. Right, isn't it?"

A knife of bitterness cut through Simms. Yes, it was right, every word
of it.

He had come here to Venus direct from the Inner-Planet Military School
on Earth. At Venus City he had waited six months before receiving
his appointment to the Venusian Colonial Service. And then, without
preamble, he had been sent to the most remote garrison in the Blue
Swamp mold country--Post One.

A week after his arrival the Commandante had ordered him to ferret out
a certain Kamali native who had rebelled against the Government, and
disable him with a paralysis gun. Somehow when Simms had come face
to face with the web-footed creature, his conscience had rebelled.
Shooting in self-defense was one thing, but crippling in cold blood
didn't seem human. He had let the Kamali go unharmed.

And a week later that same Kamali had sneaked through the impentration
walls of the Post and murdered two Service men.

"The point is," Halleck continued, "we know where you stand, and we
know we've got a good proposition ourselves. We've located a big
_Deleon_ mine near Xenthar village. That's deep mold country. All we
have to do is start a little rebellion among the Kamali tribes, wait
until they go on an expedition of war, then slip in and work the mine."

The man's eyes gleamed sardonically. But it was Gately who put the
final offer into words.

"Now then, Simms," he said huskily, "you're getting a lousy deal from
the government anyway. If you deliver that message, you'll only lose
your commission. String along with us, and we'll treat you right. What
do you say?"

Simms' face masked the battle that was waging in his soul.

"I'll think it over," he said at length.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three hours later Simms lay in one of the wall bunks, wide awake.
The jetty room was in semi-darkness, lit only by the soft glow that
filtered through the ports. From the bunks opposite came the regular
breathing of Halleck and Sterns. Gately sat by the table, smoking a
cigarette.

The situation was quite clear to Simms now. He was a prisoner. The
slightest attempt on his part to escape would result in the space-rats
taking action. For it was to their interest that his message did
not get through. Post One had asked for reinforcements. Those
reinforcements coming back through the swamp would interfere with
their plans to get the rejuvenation salts.

On the other hand Halleck had spoken the truth when he said that Simms
was heading straight into disaster. Delivery of that sealed message
cylinder would mean his immediate dismissal from the Venusian Colonial
Service.

His hands dug into the blankets. Suppose he did throw in with these
three. Halleck would see that a tribal war of large proportion got
under way among the Kamalis at once. That would mean every garrison in
Blue Swamp would be in danger of complete annihilation. Post One with
its flimsy impentration walls and its men weakened by Mold Fever would
be wiped out.

All because of a few crystals. For two generations those _Deleon_ Salts
had been a mystery to Earthmen who colonized Venus. Chemists only knew
that the Kamalis used the drug to rejuvenate their bodies and prolong
life.

Once in ages past the Kamalis had been a great race with a high
culture. Then through some great catastrophe their numbers had been
decimated and made sterile. Gradually they had migrated into Blue
Swamp, and it was here no doubt that they had developed their webbed
feet and their elongated ears. Yet while the _Deleon_ Salts served to
rejuvenate their bodies, their minds had gradually atrophied. Only the
ruling Oligarchs knew the secret of using the drug without harm to
their mental powers.

Abruptly Simms tensed. Across the room Gately's head nodded in sleep.
The Venusian Service man slid to his feet, stole noiselessly across
to the three ports and closed them. From his pocket he took a small
paralysis-fume pellet, lit it and tossed it under the table.

Back in his own bunk, he pulled on his dehydration mask and waited
tensely. In sixty seconds a grey fog of vapor was swirling through the
room. In sixty seconds more Gately's body had become rigid, his right
arm suspended in space over the table.

Simms made sure his message-tube was in its place in his belt holster.
Then he crossed unchallenged to the door. An instant later he was
outside, advancing along the catwalk.

He leaped into his _jagua_ and began to paddle madly, intent only on
putting distance between himself and the jetty.

He had two alternatives: to continue on to GHQ at BeTaba, or to head
into forbidden mold country and warn Xenthar village. Either way his
own future was doomed. But without hesitation he chose the latter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mile after mile Simms fought his way along hidden channels, each of
which resembled its predecessor. At first he had no idea where Xenthar
village lay. Then, in his mind's eye, he saw again that relief-map of
the Blue Country which all Venusian Service men must commit to memory.
Xenthar lay to the east in an unexplored district.

Huge blue priest trees bowed before him and sang their aeolian litanies
as he passed. Living serpent-kelp clutched at his dugout and tried to
prevent his passage. He moved by his watch. Overhead, at exact thirty
minute intervals, successive hordes of Poleidons--_Ithiosyoria_--roared
past in great blue clouds. As each migration came he ceased paddling
and sat motionless. The slightest movement would have sent those flying
lizard birds down to attack him.

Even his dehydration mask failed to keep out the odor of mold. Mold
balls, two feet across, floated through the air like great puffs of
bluish cotton. Simms kept a wary eye trained to see that none fell on
the _jagua_. Had one done so, the sacrophytic spores would have taken
root and over-run the boat in a matter of seconds.

On and on he went through the incessant rain. Once a huge waterskipper
came, leaped over the surface of the water, its huge center eye open,
its mouth a slavering slit of orange. He dug his paddle deep and pushed
into the blue rip grass until the monster had passed.

And finally he saw it--a rectangular floating platform, constructed of
mud and thatch, anchored by a network of vine cables.

He made a landing at a small wharf and began to stride along a matting
path. Twenty feet forward, and he came face to face with a Kamali. The
little man stopped short on his webbed feet, and his huge ears flapped
ludicrously. With a low cry he turned and ran.

"I'm in for it now," Simms muttered. "That devil will warn the whole
village."

His words were a prediction. Before he had gone fifty yards more
a squad of Kamali guardsmen advanced upon him. They wore skins of
_Chabla_ cat and red headdresses formed of _patani_, the Venusian swamp
flower.

But Simms, though new to the Service, had had experience with interior
villages before. Quietly he handed over his heat gun, let his wrists be
bound, permitted himself to be escorted down the walk.

The village opened before him. Simms saw a double row of rectangular
huts formed of white _carponium_. In the center a round hut marked the
quarters of the Oligarch and before this structure a taller Kamali
stood, wearing a headdress formed of some brownish plastic.

Simms bowed and held his message-tube in his bound hands before him in
the formality expected.

"Lieutenant Simms," he said, "Sixth Venusian Colonials, bound Post One
to general headquarters at BeTaba. I bring you information, oh mighty
one, which it will pay you to hear."

The Oligarch's eyes contracted. He motioned Simms to continue.

"Three Earth men," the lieutenant said, "are headed for your village.
They...."

His voice died off. Behind the Oligarch three familiar figures suddenly
appeared in the doorway. In the foreground stood Halleck, smoking a
cigarette, eyes filled with triumph. Behind him lounged Gately and
Sterns. The heat-gun scar on the latter's face seemed deeper and redder
than before.

"I'm afraid you're too late, Simms," Halleck said. "I've already
explained to his highness that you've come to this village to steal his
_Deleon_ Salts. I think you know what that means."

Gately laughed harshly. "You were pretty smooth back at the Jetty," he
said. "But you forgot that the dehydrators would dispose of the fumes
from your paralysis-pellet in a few moments. You forgot also that we
travel by hydrocar."

Simms' fists clenched. Suddenly an overpowering urge to smash Halleck's
sneering face blinded all his reason. Before the Kamali guards could
restrain him, he threw himself forward and planted a driving blow into
the space-rat's jaw with his two lashed fists.

But that was as far as Simms got. The Oligarch spoke a quick command
then, and a rush of webbed feet sounded. Something heavy crashed down
on the lieutenant's skull. He felt himself falling--into a pit of
blackness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Curiously, he was aware of no lapse of time when he opened his eyes.
He lay on the floor of the a low ceilinged room that was bare of
furnishings.

Dizziness claimed him, and it was several minutes before he could
gather sufficient strength to stand erect. He headed first for the
door. It was locked, and the two circular windows were both grilled
with stout metal bars. For the second time in a few hours Simms was a
prisoner.

He turned, surveyed the room with eyes of growing despair. An
antiquated paralysis gun hang from a peg on one wall. He tore it free
and flipped open the charge chamber. But as he had expected, it was
green with mold and quite useless.

The circular windows opened out on the extreme end of the village.
Peering between the bars, Simms saw an endless line of Kamalis padding
in from the other side of a vine screen, depositing the contents of
baskets on a growing pile of black slag. A dozen Kamalis squatted
there, pounding pieces of the slag with little flat-nosed hammers.

This then was the _Deleon_ Salt industry, the secret of which was so
jealously guarded.

Abruptly Simms found his gaze focused on a larger conical building he
had not noticed before. Even as he stared at its smooth windowless
sides, a sound emerged from it. A low drone at first, it rapidly
mounted the octaves until it became a high-pitched siren-like shriek.
The sound pulsed through the walls of the hut, bludgeoned against the
lieutenant's eardrums, seemed to eat into his very brain.

Higher and higher it mounted, until presently it had gone beyond the
hearing range. But Simms got the impression it was still climbing into
the supersonic range.

He saw then a native cross the square and head toward his hut, carrying
a dish of food. The lieutenant glanced at the old-fashioned lock on
the door, and a thought struck him. Feverishly he searched his pockets,
drew forth his watch. Made for use on all planets, the timepiece had a
magno-shielded case.

Quickly Simms unscrewed the back cover. The door creaked open, and the
Kamali thrust the dish of food inside. But in the instant before the
door clicked into position again, Simms had slipped the watch cover
between the latch and the magnetic face plate.

The intervening hours until the light outside gradually faded seemed
interminable. At length, however the square outside the hut was
blanketed in deep gloom. Simms boldly opened the door and emerged onto
the street.

       *       *       *       *       *

Without a plan of any kind he headed instinctively toward the slag
pile and the tower from which that strange vibration had come. He had
reached the extreme end of the village when voices reached his ears.
Quickly Simms darted into the doorway of a near hut. The men were
Halleck and Gately!

"Why take chances?" Gately was saying. "We've got all the time in
the world, and we might as well give those salts a longer vibration
exposure. That way the Earth people who take the stuff won't feel any
bad effects for maybe two years."

Halleck swore in reply. "You fool," he said. "Don't you realize we're
working on counted time. The I.P. men are after me now on Mars and
Jupiter. We've got to work fast. Have you convinced the Oligarch?"

Gately grunted. "Yes, the whole village sets out on an expedition of
war tomorrow night."

"You told the Oligarch that neighboring tribes had been tampering with
his _Deleon_ mine?" There was growing satisfaction in Halleck's voice.

"Sure, I told him. Sterns told him, too, and the fool would be alive
now if he'd taken precautions...."

The voices became inaudible then as the men passed on. Simms stood in
his tracks undecidedly. Then a glimmer of flare lightning in the sodden
sky illuminated that strange tower just ahead. Like a magnet it drew
him forward with its power.

Crouching low, he reached its cylindrical sides. He was groping for the
entrance when his hands touched something soft and yielding. Chilled,
he waited for a second lightning flare.

It came, and it revealed the body of the third space-rat, Sterns. The
man was dead. His eyes were bulging and streams of blood were issuing
from either ear.

Bewildered, yet careful not to disturb the body, Simms completed his
circle of the tower and found the entrance. Inside he felt rather than
saw a spiral staircase leading upward. With the utmost caution he began
to climb.

He was breathing hard when he reached the top. A door barred his way.
Simms pushed it open and stood staring on the threshold.

A bluish _radite_ lamp was suspended from the ceiling. Occupying a good
half of the chamber was a huge parabolic horn, its small end converging
on a platform upon which a circular disc slowly revolved. In the center
of the disc was a rounded heap of yellow crystals.

The left wall was taken up by a switchboard, with a series of dials
staggered across a _corbite_ panel. At the right wall, facing the open
end of the parabolic horn, was a large wire cage.

Simms strode forward. The crystals on the revolving disc were _Deleon_
Salts. But what was the meaning of this other apparatus?

He peered inside the cage and stared, incredulously. _Hudrites!_ The
cage was filled with hundreds of the Venusian swamp insects.

And then abruptly something clicked in his brain like a puzzle piece
fitting into a slot. This chamber housed the mechanism that made the
rejuvenation salts adaptable to the Kamalis. The secret was vibration,
a bombardment of supersonic waves, causing a basic mutation of the
crystals' molecular structure.

The _Hudrites_ were the Venus equivalent of the Earth cricket. But
where a cricket gave off vibrations of 8,000 a second, the frequency of
a _Hudrite_ had never been measured. It was said to be more than two
million cycles.

The vibrations from these insects were picked up by the parabolic horn
and a sensitive detector and stepped up by a cyclestat. When the sound
waves struck the crystals, they responded to it at their frequency and
by its vibrations gave rise to a varying voltage. The sound waves of
the _Hudrites_ were thereby converted into electrical vibrations and
these electrical waves amplified with the aid of vacuum tubes.

The two were then united, and this bombardment of supersonic and
electrical waves changed the structure of the _Deleon_ crystals. No
doubt the Kamali Oligarchs had discovered through long experiment just
how long a vibration exposure was necessary to make the salts potent
and still not effect their mental powers. The process undoubtedly took
months of Venus time.

But the space-rats, Halleck and Gately, had no intention of waiting
that long. They planned to expose the crystals for the shortest
possible time and then sell them to unsuspecting citizens of Earth.

Another thought struck Simms. Sterns! What had killed him?

       *       *       *       *       *

He had the answer an instant later. Up on the wall a warning bell
sounded and a red light flashed off and on. From a microtone speaker
sounded that same deep-toned drone. Again it began to mount swiftly up
the octaves, rising steadily to a high-pitched shriek preparing the way
for the supersonic vibrations of the _Hudrites_. The lieutenant clapped
his hands to his ears, fell to the floor in writhing agony.

Stabbing lancets of pain darted through his brain. He felt his eyes
protruding; his head seemed ready to explode. With a mighty effort he
managed to jerk on his dehydration mask, slide the protective ear-caps
into place. Even then the sensation was only partly relieved, and he
stood, heart pounding, waiting for the mad vibration to stop.

When at length it came to an end, a glance at the _Deleon_ Salts showed
him they had colored from a light yellow to a deep orange. Tiny facets
of irridescent flame now played over their surfaces.

Whatever method of utilizing the supersonic field the Kamalis used, it
was a deadly one. As the body of Sterns proved, the action of those
piezo-electric crystals was fatal to the unprotected human organism.

Simms moved to the control panel. He had the secret of the _Deleon_
Salts now. But what good would it do him. In a short time his escape
would be detected and....

But even as his gaze sped over the dials, a thought struck him. One of
those dials must control the intervals of time between each supersonic
bombardment. Another must control the frequency of the vibrations.

Boldly Simms seized a rheostat and shoved it over to its farthest
marking. He found the time dial and pushed that upward too, guessing at
the length of increase.

Then he was descending swiftly the spiral staircase to the ground
level. He skirted the main street of the village and groped his way
through inky blackness to the swamp shore.

In the gloom he made out his _jagua_. But he didn't stop here. He
ran blindly a hundred yards along the matting shore until a squat
beetle-like shape materialized out of the darkness. The space-rats'
hydrocar.

In a half minute he had the mooring line unfastened. And then splitting
the darkness about him came a shaft of white light. Simultaneously
Halleck's voice yelled:

"Get him before he gets into the car!"

There was a dull report like a melon striking, and something soft and
fuzzy whizzed past Simms' head to hit the water with a hollow plop.
A mold gun! In the relentless light of Halleck's search lamp, the
lieutenant saw the living fungus erupt into a hundred wriggling spores
that germinated in a matter of seconds.

Simms leaped into the cabin and fumbled for the starter switch. Once
a dozen years before he had driven a hydrocar on a pleasure cruise a
short distance up the Martian Central Canal. Now his fingers touched
the stud, and the motor roared into life.

But before he could press the trigger out into the swamp, he saw
Halleck leap through the water and hurl himself onto the car's hood.
The man broke the windscreen into a hundred glass fragments and thrust
a mold gun through the aperture straight into Simms' face.

But before he could press the trigger something happened. Back in
Xenthar village a mighty wailing scream pierced the air. Like a
frightened banshee the sound raced into the upper register, leaped to a
grinding, ear-shattering shriek.

Halleck dropped the mold gun and clapped his hands to his ears. On
shore the Kamalis uttered cries of pain and fell groveling as the sound
mounted into the supersonic range and the piezo-electric crystals began
their action.

With a jerk Simms swung the wheel, throwing Halleck off balance and
plummeting him into the water. The hydrocar roared out into the swamp
like a runaway comet.

       *       *       *       *       *

All night Simms drove, weaving through aisles of man-high rip grass,
circling denser groves of blue priest trees and ardaleptic ferns.

At dawn he drew up at a small island, built a fire and cooked some of
the food he found packed away in a rear compartment of the hydrocar. He
rested half an hour, reentered the car and drove on at a more leisurely
speed.

There remained now only to go to GHQ at BeTaba, give his report and
hand over his message-cylinder. And when the tube was opened, he would
be through on Venus. Dismissed from the Service for insubordination.
Wherever he went, that report would follow him.

His lips compressed. There was a girl waiting for him back on
Earth--waiting until he had completed his hitch in the Service and
could graduate to the spaceways.

Abruptly his hand, reaching to his belt, stopped, and an electric shock
ran through him.

His message cylinder was gone! He must have lost it when he rested at
the little island.

For a moment he sat motionless, a cold numbness sweeping over him. He
must have that cylinder when he reported at BeTaba. That part of the
message pertaining to reenforcements for the garrison would be given
orally, of course. But the section regarding himself was different. If
he failed to deliver that letter, sooner or later he would be accused
of throwing it away. It would mean another case of--insubordination.

Suddenly he threw over the wheel and sent the hydrocar racing back in
the direction from which it had just come.

The Great Swamp faded out of his vision now. He drove with his
thoughts. And then as familiar landmarks began to rise up before him,
he realized what he was doing.

It was selfishness that had driven him along the back trail. He was
returning for a kind of personal satisfaction. Deliberately taking
chances when the stakes were higher than himself or his own feelings.

But the island lay just ahead. It would be mad to turn back now that he
had come this far. He ran the hydrocar into a little inlet, switched
off the motor and climbed out.

The coals of his campfire were still glowing. Carefully he began to
search the trampled grass. A fern writhed in the sodden wind, and a
glint of metal caught his eye. The official tube lay where it had
fallen, close to the shore.

But as Simms strode forward, a footstep sounded behind him. He
stiffened and turned. An Earth man stood there on the little beach,
hands resting triumphantly on hips, watching him.

"Halleck!"

In the swamp back of the space-rat lay a long _akimla_ canoe, filled
with Kamali tribesmen, drawn by three waterskippers, their ugly
beetle-like bodies lashed with an intricate network of harness.

There was a mold gun in Halleck's hands, and he had it leveled before
him.

Out of the corner of his eye the lieutenant was searching desperately
for a way of escape. Above him his upraised hands touched the spreading
branch of a priest tree, and he saw that its farther extremity hung
within a foot of Halleck's gun hand.

Simms seized the branch and gave it a powerful downward jerk. And in
the instant that the space-rat's weapon was pushed out of aim, he threw
himself forward in a flying tackle.

He fought desperately, aware that he had seconds in which to act and no
more. A heavy kick in the groin sent a wave of nausea surging through
him. Then his hands closed about the mold gun. He tore it free and
pounded a hard blow into the space-rat's jaw. Twice he stuck. Then as
Halleck slumped backward, he stumbled erect and trained the weapon on
the advancing Kamalis, finger tight on trigger.

"Back!" he snapped. "One move, and I fire. Get into that jitterbug
chariot of yours and get going!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days later a mud-stained, mold-encrusted hydrocar swung up to the
jetty at BeTaba, Venusian Colonial Headquarters on the outer edge of
Blue Swamp. Two haggard Earthmen climbed out, one still gripping a
Kamali mold gun, the other, his hands bound behind him.

They paced down the catwalk, entered the lock, and a moment later stood
before the Post Major. Simms saluted and began a graphic description of
all that had occurred.

"Post One needs help sir," he concluded. "There were twelve cases of
Mold Fever when I left, and the impentration walls are badly in need of
repair. The Kamalis are on the verge of an intertribal war."

The Major looked the prisoner over and nodded. All the defiance was
gone from Halleck now. He stood there, lips twisted in a sullen snarl,
eyes mirroring defeat.

"The I.P. men have been after this rat for a long time," the Major
said. "And now, Lieutenant, I'll have your official report."

Silently Simms handed the message cylinder across the desk.

The Major opened the cylinder and glanced at the scroll inside. A
moment passed in silence as he read the message.

"Lieutenant," he said at length, looking up, "how long have you been at
Post One?"

"Six weeks, sir."

The Major opened a humidor and took out a Martian cheroot. "It so
happens your Commandante is a very shrewd person. Lieutenant, take a
look at this letter."

Slowly Simms picked up the scroll and read:

... _and am sending this letter by Lieutenant Simms, a newcomer to Post
One. The boy had the usual case of nerves brought about by the damnable
solitude, the rain and the constant dangers here at the post, and I'm
taking the usual method of curing it. Let him rest over at BeTaba for a
month. Then send him back. He has the makings_ ...

And across the desk the Major puffed his Martian cheroot and smiled.






