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asked.
"Virginia Stuart. You might as well call
me Virginia. There's not much time left for formality, is there. . . . You're
Blackwell, aren't you— the Blackwell?"
"If you mean the one who won all the
medals, yes. How many are there left?"
"Of the crew? The captain and his second
officer. And the captain's weaving about a bit. It won't be long before
the radiation gets him too."
Warren surveyed her and decided she could take the truth. "Go back
and get one of them out," he told her. "It'll only need one to jam on
all the power there is left when I ring for it. But there must be one. It isn't
much of a chance, but it's the only one we've got."
"Check," she said. "Isn't the phone working?"
"No. Only the alarm."
She nodded, and left him. Warren strained
again to pierce the grey cloud. He was a passenger on the Merkland , but he had been co-opted when the powerleak developed.
He knew more than any of the crew about Venus. Not that that made much
difference. All that he could do was stay where he was and sound the alarm when he saw the ground. Then, down below, whoever was left would
touch off the braking jets, and with luck the ship would come down hard but in
one piece. But it would need a lot of luck.
There wouldn't be much hope for any one who
was below. Warren, right in the nose, probably stood the best chance, after the
rest of the passengers, who were locked in a storeroom amidships. None of the
other passengers would have been much help, and apparently the captain had
picked out him and the girl as the only ones who might be useful in the
emergency. He seemed a brave and able officer, that captain. He could have
stayed in the nose himself, safe, if anyone was, and left the problem of the
leaking radiation to someone else. But he knew that only he or some other member
of his crew could handle the jets, and that it was vital that they should fire
exactly when needed.
The girl came back, and Captain Morris was with her. "I make it
twenty thousand feet up, Blackwell," said Morris. "Do you think that
would be about right?"
Virginia hadn't exaggerated when she said the captain was weaving about
a bit. He was in the last stages of plutonium poisoning. Warren thought, a
trifle cynically, that the captain might as well go on being a hero now, for
he was a dead man already. But Warren was used to death. The rows of ribbons
somewhere in his luggage proclaimed that.
"I never flew much over Venus," he
admitted. "Nobody does. I'd say we were well up yet, on a long slant. But
don't quote me."
The
captain sank heavily into one of the control seats. He
could never stop his shaking now, but he could limit it by trying to relax. "We
can blast for five seconds, I make it," he said. "That means at our
speed we should start a hundred and twenty feet up."
Warren shook his head. "You might see a
hundred and twenty feet on the surface. But not straight
down. It's thickest about sixty feet up."
"That's why I came to see you. We're in
your hands, Blackwell. You know more about these currents than anyone else on
board. You'll have to guess, that's all. The instruments aren't anywhere near
that precise, and if you wait till you see solid ground it'll be too late.
Someone has to guess. It might as well be you."
Warren nodded. Morris hoisted himself to his
feet. He paused at the door. "Goodbye," he said.
Warren was left with the girl. "Now
you've got a chance to win another medal," she said.
"I could live without it. When the Venusian war was over I thought I'd finished with
danger."
"You're never finished with danger. It
follows a brave man around."
"Maybe," murmured Warren, "but
I'm not a brave man. Never was."
Her
eyes widened, but she said nothing. She had never met Warren Blackwell before
this trip. In fact, she hadn't officially met him on the trip, until she introduced herself a few minutes before. But like everyone else, she had read of him while
the war was on. A man who treated bis life as a
millionaire might treat a
"Virginia Stuart. You might as well call
me Virginia. There's not much time left for formality, is there. . . . You're
Blackwell, aren't you— the Blackwell?"
"If you mean the one who won all the
medals, yes. How many are there left?"
"Of the crew? The captain and his second
officer. And the captain's weaving about a bit. It won't be long before
the radiation gets him too."
Warren surveyed her and decided she could take the truth. "Go back
and get one of them out," he told her. "It'll only need one to jam on
all the power there is left when I ring for it. But there must be one. It isn't
much of a chance, but it's the only one we've got."
"Check," she said. "Isn't the phone working?"
"No. Only the alarm."
She nodded, and left him. Warren strained
again to pierce the grey cloud. He was a passenger on the Merkland , but he had been co-opted when the powerleak developed.
He knew more than any of the crew about Venus. Not that that made much
difference. All that he could do was stay where he was and sound the alarm when he saw the ground. Then, down below, whoever was left would
touch off the braking jets, and with luck the ship would come down hard but in
one piece. But it would need a lot of luck.
There wouldn't be much hope for any one who
was below. Warren, right in the nose, probably stood the best chance, after the
rest of the passengers, who were locked in a storeroom amidships. None of the
other passengers would have been much help, and apparently the captain had
picked out him and the girl as the only ones who might be useful in the
emergency. He seemed a brave and able officer, that captain. He could have
stayed in the nose himself, safe, if anyone was, and left the problem of the
leaking radiation to someone else. But he knew that only he or some other member
of his crew could handle the jets, and that it was vital that they should fire
exactly when needed.
The girl came back, and Captain Morris was with her. "I make it
twenty thousand feet up, Blackwell," said Morris. "Do you think that
would be about right?"
Virginia hadn't exaggerated when she said the captain was weaving about
a bit. He was in the last stages of plutonium poisoning. Warren thought, a
trifle cynically, that the captain might as well go on being a hero now, for
he was a dead man already. But Warren was used to death. The rows of ribbons
somewhere in his luggage proclaimed that.
"I never flew much over Venus," he
admitted. "Nobody does. I'd say we were well up yet, on a long slant. But
don't quote me."
The
captain sank heavily into one of the control seats. He
could never stop his shaking now, but he could limit it by trying to relax. "We
can blast for five seconds, I make it," he said. "That means at our
speed we should start a hundred and twenty feet up."
Warren shook his head. "You might see a
hundred and twenty feet on the surface. But not straight
down. It's thickest about sixty feet up."
"That's why I came to see you. We're in
your hands, Blackwell. You know more about these currents than anyone else on
board. You'll have to guess, that's all. The instruments aren't anywhere near
that precise, and if you wait till you see solid ground it'll be too late.
Someone has to guess. It might as well be you."
Warren nodded. Morris hoisted himself to his
feet. He paused at the door. "Goodbye," he said.
Warren was left with the girl. "Now
you've got a chance to win another medal," she said.
"I could live without it. When the Venusian war was over I thought I'd finished with
danger."
"You're never finished with danger. It
follows a brave man around."
"Maybe," murmured Warren, "but
I'm not a brave man. Never was."
Her
eyes widened, but she said nothing. She had never met Warren Blackwell before
this trip. In fact, she hadn't officially met him on the trip, until she introduced herself a few minutes before. But like everyone else, she had read of him while
the war was on. A man who treated bis life as a
millionaire might treat a
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