*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64190 ***

                            PURPLE FOREVER

                             By JACK LEWIS

            _Three men on Venus ... lolling about in their
            shirt sleeves and breathing in an atmosphere of
           chlorine and ammonia that was sure to kill a man
             in thirty seconds. The pictures lied! ... they
           must lie! Trick photography?... Inquisitive Carl
             Keating found the true answer even stranger._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Planet Stories November 1953.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The envelope was addressed in a bold sprawling hand that barely left
room for the seventy-five cent special delivery stamp in the upper
right hand corner. It was a nice stamp--a blue one commemorating the
fiftieth anniversary of Harvey's first landing on Mars. Carl Keating
tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of good paper, typewritten on
one side. The message read:

    Dear Mr. Keating;
      Must see you at once.
        Norman Hamlin

He'd barely slid the letter back in its wrapper when the desk phone
rang. Automatically he pushed the view-plate to a respectful fifteen
inches and threw in the video. The screen swirled for a moment in a
milky blur, then abruptly a man's head and shoulders jumped into focus.
He was a lean, angular-faced man, with thin shoulders and thinner lips,
which at the moment were set in a Lincolnish smile.

"I'm Dr. Hamlin," the face in the screen announced. "You got my letter?"

Carl nodded. "I have your letter doctor, but I'm afraid you have the
wrong man. I can't imagine what you'd want to see ME about."

The image on the screen expanded as Norman Hamlin leaned toward the
view-plate. "You are Major Carl Keating, retired?" the mouth asked.

Carl pushed the instrument back hoping the other man would do the
same. "Retired as of last Tuesday," he said, "at the tender age of
thirty-six. What's on your mind, doctor?"

The mouth got bigger till it filled the entire screen. "Major Keating,
would it be possible for you to come out to Long Island tonight?"

"It would not!"

"Please it's...."

"Dr. Hamlin," Carl said not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his
voice, "in the first place I don't even know who you are; in the second
place I'm packing for a vacation in Paris; and in the third place if
there's anything I detest, it's talking down someone's throat. Now if
you don't mind...."

"Wait!" The image on the screen diminished, till over the narrow
shoulders Carl could make out a book-lined study, and beyond that a
sunken living room. "It's important--very important."

"So's my vacation."

"Suppose I were to make it worth while to postpone your vacation?"

"I'm afraid my while is worth more than you could offer," Keating said
bluntly.

"I can offer five thousand dollars," Norman Hamlin said. "It's yours
just for coming out to Wading River tonight and listening to what I
have to say."

"You mean you'll pay five thousand dollars just for the privilege of
talking to me?"

Hamlin nodded. "You listen to what I tell you. Then, if you aren't
interested, you pick up your five thousand and leave. It's as easy as
that."

Keating reached across the desk and scanned the envelope. "I have the
address," he said. "I'll be right out."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the peak of the rush hour when he left the apartment. Overhead,
a congested swarm of copter traffic buzzed like an angry beehive. A
block away was a monorail kiosk. Ever conscious of the strange feel of
his new civvies, Keating entered it and boarded a Huntington express.
From there it was only ten minutes to Wading River by copter-cab. Dr.
Hamlin had left the lawn lights burning, and even before he'd paid his
fare, was standing at his elbow. He extended a hand in greeting. "You
made good time," he said.

Keating gripped the other man's hand. "You made a good offer."

Hamlin gestured him through an opening in the dura-glass ell of
the house. The room was a library, the same one he'd seen over
Hamlin's shoulder during the phone conversation. In the center of the
book-bordered room was a rectangular table. A man sat at the head of it.

"Sit down," the man said.

Carl sat down. The man at the head of the table was robust, almost to
the point of flabbiness. He was probably in his late twenties, but the
pink flush on his cheekbones and a pair of broad-arched eyebrows gave
him a mannequin appearance.

"This is Mr. Stewart Ferguson," Dr. Hamlin announced.

"Not THE Mr. Stewart Ferguson?"

"I take it then you've heard of him?"

Carl studied the man whimsically. "Yeah, I've heard of him," he said.
"All the way from here to Mars and back I've heard of him."

Stewart Ferguson lit a cigarette. "Am I to understand, Mr. Keating,
that you don't approve of my so-called behavior?"

Carl shrugged. "Who am I to comment on your behavior? If I had your
money I'd probably act the same way you do. Who doesn't want to sleep
with a video actress?"

Dr. Hamlin coughed. "There are times when perhaps the newspapers have
exaggerated Mr. Ferguson's escapades. Furthermore, I hardly think his
private life is any concern of ours."

"I'm not concerned," Carl said. "If I'm being paid five thousand
dollars to listen to an evening's chatter I'd as soon listen to
Ferguson's autobiography as anything else ... might even come down on
my price a bit."

Stewart Ferguson dug into his coat pocket and came up with a sheaf
of bills. He threw them across the table. "That takes care of our
agreement," he said, "now suppose we get down to the business you're
being paid to listen to."

Carl picked up the bills and rapped them across his knuckles. For just
a moment he toyed with the idea of throwing them back in the playboy's
face. He didn't. Not only was five thousand dollars a lot of money, but
his curiosity was aroused. "I'm listening," he said.

Norman Hamlin braced his bony elbows on the table and leaned toward
him. "Mr. Keating, in the course of the three trips you made to Mars
with the military, what was it that stood out foremost in your mind?"

"Men's emotions vary," Carl said carefully. "An architect would
probably admire the beauty of the Martian cities, while a gourmet would
savor the taste of candied encoms. Probably the thing that impressed me
most was the friendliness of the people."

Hamlin drummed his fingers on the table. "I see," he said. "You'd say,
then, it was a reasonably nice place to live?"

"Reasonably nice," Carl agreed. "Certainly nicer than the
science-fiction writers had pictured it."

"Better than Earth?"

Carl shook his head. "Not as far as I'm concerned. My tastes run to
sandy beaches and women with real eyelashes. That's just my personal
opinion you understand. There's almost eighty-thousand people who
disagree with me--I believe that was the latest migration figures."

Hamlin thumped his pipe against the edge of the table. "I understand
you've just returned from Venus, Mr. Keating. Can you give us a short
briefing concerning your reactions to that planet?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Carl eyed the man warily. "I'll be as brief as possible. There's been
four landings on Venus in almost forty years. All these have been made
by the military. That to me is a pretty substantial indication that no
one would go there unless they were ordered to!"

Hamlin smiled. "I didn't mean quite as brief as that, Mr. Keating. I
had rather hoped you'd be a little more explicit."

Carl frowned. "I find it a bit hard to understand just what you're
driving at Dr. Hamlin. After all, there's been over a hundred books
written on the subject. What can I add to the books? Maybe I could cram
in a few more ghastly adjectives, but even then it wouldn't explain
what the place was really like. You'd have to go there to find that out.

"How can you explain to someone sitting in a comfortable drawing room,
the terrors of plodding through a swamp, knee deep in green fog, and
wondering when a forty foot reptile is going to sink its teeth into
your leg. How can you explain the sheer mental fatigue of waiting for
a needle-nosed scorpion to puncture your space jumper, knowing that
the atmosphere right on the other side of your face-plate can kill you
in thirty seconds. How do you explain an atmosphere of chlorine and
ammonia for that matter--or a color. I say purple-brown to you and it
don't mean a thing. But look at the angry purple-brown landscape of
Venus for two years like I did and you'd know what I mean.

"It's a primitive planet, Dr. Hamlin. Right now, according to the
geologists, Venus is just like the earth was ten million years
ago. Life is forming on it--primitive life. Take the chowls, for
example--you see replicas of them in every department store window.
They look a little like teddy-bears, especially when they walk. Still
they have ten fingers and ten toes. Archeologists tell us they're
humanoid. Yet only half-a-million years ago they crawled out of the
oceans. Maybe in another two million years they'll be living in houses
instead of thatched hovels and pointing guns at people instead of
running like a star-bound flame-buggy every time they hear a noise.
But right now they're scared. They're out of their natural element and
they're scared, the same way our own Neanderthal man was scared before
he found out how to fashion a rock-hammer."

Dr. Hamlin lit his pipe. "You're quite sure then, Mr. Keating, that man
will never be able to live there?"

"Live there! Man can't even breathe there! There's less than one tenth
of one percent oxygen in the air."

Dr. Hamlin pressed his fingertips together. "Mr. Keating," he said,
"just how much do you know about the three men who were lost on the
first Venus expedition?"

"Only what's in the history books," Carl said. "It's more or less of a
legend, how Edgerton, Rhind, and Mitchell, were separated from the main
party and never seen again."

"Died contributing to man's conquest of space," Ferguson said with mock
drama.

"It wasn't a pleasant death," Carl said quickly. "I'd bet on that."

"Mr. Keating," Hamlin said, "do you have any ideas as to just why these
three men should have disappeared at this time?"

Carl shook his head. "Could have been anything, I guess. They could
have got lost and ran out of oxygen. They could have gotten snake bit.
I wouldn't know. The whole thing happened before I was born."


                                  II

Dr. Hamlin got up. "No, there was more to it than that. In spite of the
fact that it happened almost forty years ago, I happen to know that
the situation didn't occur exactly as the history books would have you
believe. The army, it is true covered up for them and made them heroes,
but Edgerton, Mitchell, and Rhind, in reality, took off on their own.
They took off without orders or permission, just a few hours before
take-off-time, with nothing except a six week supply of oxygen, a
portable air-blister, and a few supplies."

Carl studied the man's face. The story was true. In his cadet days,
old spacemen had spilled the story too many times for him to doubt its
authenticity. "Suppose you tell me what all this is getting at?" he
hedged.

Hamlin crossed the room. From a desk drawer he removed a palm-sized
photo-cartridge and inserted it in the video adaptor. The room lights
dimmed as the three dimensional screen brightened, dancing in a
kaleidoscope of color. The colors merged.

He was staring into a vivid reproduction of a Venusian landscape. The
picture had been taken from a small hill. Below was the violet-brown
monotony of a saroo forest, visible only in small islands, where
the roof of the trees stabbed out from the swirling green fog. And
beyond that, almost lost in the haze, was the outline of a pair of
reddish-brown spires, that reared out of the jungle, rising, till they
were lost in the ever present layer of upper clouds that shrouded the
planet. It was an ugly scene--ugly, yet strangely beautiful.

The camera swiveled in a 180° arc. They were looking up the hill
now--looking up to where the hill tore itself loose from the green-fog
level, rising for perhaps half a mile, then disappearing in the white
ocean overhead. Halfway up the hill was a cluster of flare trees, their
purple-brown leaves drooping in the ammonia-soaked air, and underneath
the trees, a house--not the blister-type oxygen tents used by the
military, or the thatched hovels of the chowls, but a real earth-style
house with a peaked roof and pillar supported porch. Abruptly, the
picture widened into a sharp closeup, revealing an open doorway. A
man--an earthman--stood framed in the threshold. He was a clean-shaven
man, probably in his early twenties. Two other men slightly older,
lolled in a pair of rustic chairs set on the open veranda. Apparently
none of the men were aware of the camera that recorded their every move.

Carl was aware of his hands gripping the chair arms. Except for the
weird backdrop of flare trees and raton vines that flanked the house,
he might have been looking at a peaceful summer resort in the Canadian
Rockies. But it wasn't an earth picture. These men were on Venus
lolling about in their shirt sleeves and breathing in the atmosphere of
chlorine and ammonia that was sure to kill a man in thirty seconds!

It was trick photography. It had to be. Quickly, he flicked a look
at Dr. Hamlin, then looked back at the screen. One of the men was
elbowing himself out of the chair now. He walked to the edge of the
porch railing and stared directly into the camera. There was something
vaguely familiar about the man--about all the men.

Suddenly, Carl tensed forward on the edge of the chair, conscious of
a cold icicle of movement that snaked the length of his spine. The
picture on the screen flicked out, abruptly. The room lights were on
again, and Stewart Ferguson was studying him with detached insolence.

"Well?" Ferguson asked.

Carl ignored him, and turned to Norman Hamlin. "Did I see what I think
I saw?" he asked.

Hamlin nodded.

"But those men!"

"You recognized them?"

Carl swallowed, hard. The highball he'd had three hours before churned
up in his throat. "Of course I recognize them," he said thickly.
"They've been commemorated on postage stamps and cut in stone at every
spaceport in the country. But they're dead! Been dead for forty years!"

Hamlin turned up his palms. "You saw the pictures," he said evenly.

"Possibly the military has been deceiving us for forty years," Ferguson
drawled. "Maybe they only made up that story about the poisonous
atmosphere."

Keating felt a hot flush rise to the back of his neck. "That's not
true," he said with obvious restraint. "I was there--for two long years
I was on Venus, and it's bad, every bit as bad as the army says it is.
You'd have to smell the stuff yourself to know what I really mean. It's
so bad that even after you drop your jumper in the airlock and shower,
the stuff follows you inside and stinks the ship up from here to Pluto
and back again. The army's not lying. Not about that they're not!"

"How do you account for the photos then?"

"I don't know," Carl said wearily. "All I know is that for forty years,
no man...." He stopped suddenly, as all at once the full enormity of
the situation dawned on him. Those men on the screen. He'd recognized
them of course from their pictures. But how about those pictures?
The pictures he'd seen of Edgerton, Mitchell, and Rhind, were old
pictures.... Pictures taken almost forty years ago!

       *       *       *       *       *

As if from far away, Hamlin's voice was droning in his ears. "Perhaps
it's not quite as ridiculous as you may think, Mr. Keating. There's
a widely recognized theory that the very air which gives us life,
also gives us death. In fact, one of the chief reasons for the high
migration to Mars is the fact that man's life expectancy on that
planet is almost thirty percent greater than on our own. Now let's
suppose that the three men who deserted the first Venus expedition
had in some way found a way to breathe the air of that planet. Is it
so inconceivable that the atmospheric content might be conducive to
extremely high longevity--perhaps even immortality?"

Carl wanted to say something--anything. "When--when were these pictures
taken?" he finally managed.

"Just a little over four months ago."

The voice had an oddly nostalgic ring to it. Carl turned. The man had
apparently entered the room unnoticed. He was a big block-shouldered
man, with brown eyes and a mat of inky-black hair that all but covered
a low sloping forehead. He could have passed for a cargo hand at the
Montauk Spaceport, except that Carl knew different.

"No need to introduce myself, is there?" the man said.

Carl shook his head. To Hamlin he said: "Paul Spero just got back from
Venus too. We were discharged together--as if you didn't know."

"You should have stuck around Keating," Spero said. "Right after you
left, I tied in with a three-day party. You missed out on a good time."

"I'll bet," Carl said. "I take it that you were the one who brought
back the pictures?"

Spero forced a grin that didn't quite make the width of his mouth.
"That's right. While you and the rest of the crew were entertaining
yourselves collecting fossils I did some research on my own."

"Did it ever occur to you that the military might want these pictures?"
Carl asked.

The other man made a noise with his nose. "Just what did the military
ever do for me, Keating?" he asked "Fifteen years I spent as a crewman
on every flame-buggy from here to Titan and back, and after all that, I
get pensioned off a miserable second lieutenant."

"You'll have to admit," Carl said, "there were times when your conduct
fell something short of exemplary."

Spero tossed him a sloppy salute. "Yes, Major," he said with mock
formality. Abruptly he strode over to where Carl was standing. "I don't
think you quite get it yet, Keating," he said thickly. "Try using your
imagination. Forget about the griping we did when we were stationed
there. It's different now. Edgerton, Mitchell and Rhind have found
a way to breathe, and the secret of breathing is also the secret of
immortality. Suppose I'd been sucker enough to turn this information
over to the high brass? Inside of half-an-hour, those men would have
been interrogated. Inside of a week, the information would have been
radioed back to Terra. And by now, every one on this earth and his
great maiden aunt would be selling their soul to get passage to Venus.
And where do you think all this would leave us Keating? I'll tell you
where ... we'd be right here sweating out a priority list long enough
to stretch from here to Pluto and back!"

Carl studied the man's face. "I take it then you didn't talk to these
men when you took the pictures?"

Spero shook his head. "No," he said carefully. "At first I had all I
could do to keep from running up to them, but then I figured that if
they saw me, they'd know there was a spaceship on the planet. All kinds
of things went through my head; one of them was that maybe they were
sick of Venus and would try to make contact with the ship and spill
their story. In the end, I just hid behind a clump of saroo trees and
took the pictures."

Carl let his gaze wander about the room. He had to think. Then,
almost as if it had been prearranged, he found himself looking into
a full-length mirror on the far wall. The reflection he saw wasn't
old--the hair, while slightly lighter at the temples, was still for
the most part dark-brown. He had a good build too, and except for a
few creases radiating from the corners of his eyes, his skin had the
smooth sort of thickness that many men in their middle-thirties would
have envied. He'd kept himself well. It would probably be fifteen or
twenty years yet before the almost invisible lines in his cheeks and
forehead would begin to widen into deep grooves. But it would happen.
It would....

And it didn't have to.

He knew what the proposition was now. He turned to Dr. Hamlin. "Let's
see if I have it figured," he said. "You want to go to Venus and look
for this fountain of youth. Ferguson's financing the trip, and Spero
is the Ponce de Leon who knows where to look. All you need is a pilot.
Right?"

"Think it over carefully, Mr. Keating," Hamlin said. "Don't be hasty in
your answer."

Spero too had noticed the note of rejection in his voice. "You'd better
grab the chance, Keating," he said. "Right now I'll admit I don't like
Venus anymore than you. But we're going to change all that. Right after
the migration starts there'll be cities, and parks and railroads. And
we'll be the ones responsible for all of it. We'll be heroes--not just
for ten or twenty years, but forever!"

"Did I hear someone say forever?"

The voice had a resonant, almost musical pitch to it. It was deep and
throaty, more like an adolescent boy's voice than a woman's. She was
standing at the arched entrance to the library, one hand balanced on
the jade statue flanking the threshold. She had finespun taffy-blonde
hair and a complexion to match. She wore a gray-green krylon dress, the
same color as her eyes. It looked good on her. A space jumper would
have looked equally well.

"I don't believe you've met my daughter," Dr. Hamlin said. "Diane, this
is Mr. Keating."

Diane crossed the room. The pressure of her fingers was quick, and warm
and suggestive. "Hello, Mr. Keating," she said.

Carl was aware of mumbling something polite. Across the room, Stewart
Ferguson had derricked himself out of the chair. Spero remained seated,
caressing the girl with his sultry brown eyes.

Diane flicked an imaginary wisp of hair back from behind her ear. "Have
you decided to join us, Mr. Keating?" she said.

"Us?"

She searched his face. "Why, yes. Didn't Dad tell you there'd be five
of us. After all, who'd want a slice of immortality more than a woman."

"Immortality for a goddess," Ferguson said blandly.

The soft, red mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Then the brief look
of annoyance was gone. "You will come, won't you?" she said.

Keating avoided her eyes. Again he found his gaze wandering to the
wall mirror; looking at his own face, coarse and ruddy looking against
Diane's soft white shoulder.

"Count me in," he said quietly.


                                  III

Keating opened his eyes slowly, dimly aware of the familiar throbbing
headache and a dull racking pain around the chest. Hazy-looking behind
a galaxy of dancing spots was the instrument panel. He shook his head
sideways--hard. The spots dissolved and the big panel board jumped into
focus. The ship was two hundred miles above the Montauk Spaceport. He
flicked a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see the familiar
blue uniforms of his fellow crewmates. Instead he saw three men and a
girl--a girl with long shapely legs and taffy-blonde hair.

So it was true then. It hadn't been a dream after all.

After the passengers began to stir, he turned. "Have a nice sleep?" he
asked.

Diane shot him a pale smile.

Stewart Ferguson pretended to applaud. "Splendid Captain," he said
contemptuously. "A momentous speech for a momentous occasion. Come, say
something more for the history books!"

There was an awkward silence. Then Spero guffawed. Carl bit off the
angry reply that jumped to his lips. "All right, I will," he said. "How
about someone brewing a pot of coffee?"

Diane got up and disappeared into the galley. Minutes later, she
returned with a tray of containers. She stopped momentarily when Spero,
leaning against one of the ports at the end of the companionway, said
something to her, then abruptly, she quickened her pace. When she
handed Carl the coffee her face was a deep scarlet.

Carl Keating stared vacantly out of the blister window watching the
fleecy-white rim of the earth roll up toward them. The trip, less than
one hour old, was already a hotbed of smoldering emotions. Worst of
all, was the fact that things were almost sure to get worse before
they got better. Under the best of conditions, space does strange
things to individuals cramped together in the confines of a ship.
Army records are crammed full of case histories where men, failing to
adjust themselves to existing conditions, have reacted in ways which
are probably best left in the files. But military men are schooled and
conditioned for space, and while complete and mutual understanding
seldom exists, there is usually, even as there was between Spero and
himself, an unwritten live-and-let-live policy among crew members.

But they weren't in the army anymore, and no one seemed more aware
of it than Paul Spero. Never a model officer, Spero in his new-found
freedom, had become almost unbearably obnoxious. Nor could he expect
any cooperation from Stewart Ferguson. He could handle him, he hoped.
All of which brought him to the big question. What about Diane?

It was probably a paradox that while the more unsavory military case
histories were due to men being without women, the proximity of a
long-legged taffy-blonde in this case was a factor more conducive to
mutiny than harmony.

And curiously enough, it was Diane Hamlin herself, who came up with
at least part of the answer. She was smart--whether or not she'd
been around was a question to ponder over while staring into the
star-studded blackness beyond the blister ports. But one thing was
certain: the girl had an almost uncanny knowledge of the working's of
men's minds, an insight of psychology which she applied diplomatically
if not ruthlessly to all aboard.

With just the right amount of good-natured tolerance she either ignored
or subtly evaded the bluntly-pointed remarks of Stewart Ferguson and
deftly sidestepped the impulsive hands of Paul Spero. On several
occasions when a crisis seemed imminent, she disappeared--always
good-naturedly and on a new logical pretense--into the small cubbyhole
to which she'd been assigned. So tactfully was all this accomplished
that they'd already passed the halfway mark before Carl realized that
he hadn't spoken to her alone since during the preparations.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was mildly surprised therefore, when while spelling Spero at the
controls during the sleep period, he became suddenly aware of someone
standing at his elbow. She was wearing a robins-egg-blue dressing robe,
loose-fitting except around the curve of her breasts. She sat down in
the co-pilot's seat next to him.

"Mind if I keep you company awhile? I can't seem to get to sleep."

"A pleasure," Carl said with genuine enthusiasm.... He stopped
awkwardly, wondering what to say.... Impulsively, he ran his open hand
across the width of the blister glass. "Want a hunk of space, baby. Say
where to cut and I'll slice it for you."

She smiled a little. "You sound a little like Ferguson when you talk
that way."

Carl pretended to check the dials.

"Carl?"

On his forearm he could feel Diane's fingers. He turned.

"What makes a man like that?"

He moved his shoulders. "I don't know, unless it's because he's always
been able to buy anything he's ever wanted. As far as I know, there's
only been one thing he hasn't been able to buy, and he's working on
that."

"You mean immortality?"

Carl ignored the question. "Why ask me about Ferguson's mind anyhow?"
he asked suddenly. "You're the psychologist of this expedition." He
watched her nibble on her lower lip for a moment, then went on: "You
don't have to admit it. I just want you to know you've been doing a
good job. I don't know how long you can keep it up or what happens
after we get to Venus, but up till now you've been doing all right.
There's only one thing wrong with the setup as far as I can see, and
that's that this arm's-length policy apparently applies to me as well
as it does to everyone else. I know it's necessary to the plan, and I
know it's a selfish argument, but it bothers me!"

She turned and faced him. For a moment it occurred to him she was
angry, but when she spoke, her voice was soft, and deep, and lingering.
"I'm sorry, Carl, but you can see why it has to be this way.... I
mean--"

Carl leaned over suddenly and kissed her full on the lips. She didn't
pull away. Neither did she respond the way he'd have liked her to.
After a brief interval he felt the pressure of her hand against his
shoulder.

"Please Carl, not now."

"When?"

She turned away. On the starboard port he could see the reflection of
her finely-moulded face. She looked wistful, almost on the verge of
tears.

"I don't know, Carl," she said wearily. "Maybe after we're settled on
Venus. Maybe after the migration starts."

Keating hacked up a laugh. "Just what makes you so sure there's going
to be a migration, or for that matter any little men who never grow old
as long as they have their daily diet of ammonia and chlorine?"

He watched her turn, felt her eyes bore into him. "You don't believe
it, do you?"

"I'm not sure," Carl said carefully, "I want to believe it, only I've
listened to so many bug yarns in my time it's probably warped my sense
of values. The whole thing just sounds too fantastic."

"But the pictures?"

"The pictures were real enough," Carl admitted. "I'd vouch for that.
It's just that if you'd ever caught a whiff of that stuff like I have,
you'd know that no one could breathe it and stay alive for sixty
seconds, much less forever."

"What do you think we'll find?"

Carl shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe the story's true. Sometimes I find
myself wondering what it would be like to be immortal--I mean after all
the willful-wishing's over with, and you get down to thinking about it
in terms of 'what's-in-it-for-me.' Most of us think of immortality as
being something we could have on our own terms. But suppose everyone
were immortal, the way they'll be--or could be--after this so-called
migration starts. How much will people have really changed. They'll
have just as many problems--bigger ones in fact, 'cause they'll be
living on what to me is just about the God-awfulest hunk of crud in the
galaxy. And the only thing they're getting in the way of compensation
is the knowledge that these same troubles are going to go on forever."

She was staring at him now--attentively with her lips slightly parted.
"You feel this way, and you still agreed to come," she said evenly.
"Why?"

Carl forced a smile. "Like I said, maybe I can have it on my own terms.
It's a gamble, but if it pays off it'll be worth it."

Diane got up. "I'd best be getting back," she said.

He watched her till she disappeared around the corner of the
companionway. Then he fixed his gaze on the marble-sized disc to the
right of Polaris.

"Immortality, and thou," he murmured.

       *       *       *       *       *

Carl Keating nosed the ship into a standard satellite maneuver,
circling the planet twice before he cleaved into the unbroken
ocean of ammonia clouds that shrouded the planet. Then they were
falling--falling through a smoky whiteness that boiled against the
portholes, settling in spots, and condensing into tiny rivulets that
ran the length of the amber glass. The ship shuddered sharply three
times as its powerful thrust engines reached out, challenging the
herculean fingers of gravity; fighting them--fighting them to a draw.
Then the misty ports cleared, and the ship settled with a gentle bump
in the center of a broad meadow.

Not till after the controls had been checked, and the atomic reactor
switch set to recharge, did he look at the passengers. They were
standing in the companionway, their faces pressed against the ports. He
crossed the control room and peered over the bony shoulder of Norman
Hamlin.

Dismal-looking, even through the amber glass, the miserable panorama
rolled away from them. A quarter-mile away, the meadow ended at the rim
of a small ridge, beyond which a hill dipped down--down across the roof
of a purple-brown saroo forest that merged with an abyss of swirling
green fog that swallowed up the horizon. In the foreground, a few
packing cases lay scattered about in front of a large white hemisphere
topped by a radio antenna and American flag. It was all there, exactly
the way it had been left by the military almost six months ago.

"That's a permanent building," Carl said to no one in particular. "Just
before we evacuated, Colonel Brophy stocked it up with all our excess
supplies, just on the chance someone might be crazy enough to come back
here. We even left the separator running when we left. So take a good
look at it, 'cause inside that bubble is the only breath of air on the
whole planet."

"Very nice of the military," Ferguson commented dryly.

"Let's hope we won't have to use it long," Dr. Hamlin said.

Carl looked out the port. Rain, that doused the planet almost twenty
hours a day, had started to fall, settling in small puddles at the base
of the ship and drenching the broad-leafed saroo trees.

"I wouldn't bet on it," he said.

As if in a trance, Diane continued to stare at the melancholy
landscape. "It's more that awful color than anything else," she said
finally. "It makes everything seem so angry looking. How about the rest
of the planet? Is it all like this?"

"No," Carl said, "it's not all like this. That's the trouble. This
is one of the more livable spots. That's why it was chosen by the
military. Roughly ten percent of the planet lies above water, but out
of that, only five percent of the terrain is in the visual belt."

"I'll play the straight man," Ferguson said. "Tell us, Captain, what is
the visual belt?"

"The visual belt represents the altitude from approximately three to
four thousand feet above sea level," Carl told him. "Below that you
have the green ground haze you see over the tops of those trees, and
above it is the ten-mile-thick layer of clouds that never lift. Both
are so thick, that except around the fringe areas, you can't even count
your own fingers."

"Nice place to take your girl for a walk," Ferguson said, looking at
Diane pointedly.

"Is anyone interested in what I think?" Spero said suddenly.

"Think away," Carl said. "Who's there to stop you?"

"That's exactly what I'd like to talk about," Spero said grimly. "It
seems to me that for a fellow who left his rank back at the separation
center, you've certainly been assuming a lot of authority around here."

Carl felt a warm flush rising to his cheekbones. "We've been in space,"
he said. "The pilot of a ship is responsible for the actions of
everyone aboard."

Spero jerked a thumb at the blister port. "I've got news for you,
Keating," he said. "We're not IN space anymore, so you may consider
yourself relieved of your authority. For five weeks now we've watched
you swagger around the ship like the hero of a grade-B space-opera, and
frankly I think we're all a little sick of it!"

"Aren't you dramatizing this a little heavy," Diane said suddenly.

"Shut up!" Spero said harshly.

Stewart Ferguson sat down, folding his hands in his lap. "My, my," he
said. "A real live mutiny, just like one reads about. Tell me, when
does Jack Jupiter come crashing through the lock-door?"

"I wasn't aware that anyone in particular was in command," Diane
persisted, "but if you think we need someone, I'd suggest we take a
vote."

Spero grinned. "No, honey. We all know who your money's riding on.
That's why you can forget all those dreams about you and Keating
settling down in a saroo covered cottage for the next three or four
thousand years. You see, I've got different plans."

From the slash pocket of his tunic Spero suddenly whipped out a
snub-nosed needle gun, waving it carelessly across the width of the
cabin. He flicked a glance at Ferguson.

"Surprise," he said. "Jack Jupiter just crashed the lock-door. I'm Jack
Jupiter!"

"You'll never get away with this," Carl said.

The smile on Spero's face broadened. "Oh, come Keating. How corny
can you get? I have gotten away with it. Since I'm the only one who
can lead you to immortality, what's more natural than for me to take
command? My first official act will be to detail you, Ferguson, and
Dr. Hamlin to go outside and activate the blister. You'll find space
jumpers in the airlock. Diane and I will stay here and figure out a
plan of action."

Carl took a step forward. "I'm afraid we can't go along with your
plan," he said quietly.

Spero leveled the lethal end of the weapon against his chest. "You're
acting stupidly, Keating. You know you can't stop me, just as you know
I'll kill you if you try. You above all people should know that."

There was a stagnant silence, during which Carl held his ground.
Violently he was aware of the beating of his own heart. The tapping
got louder as he watched Spero's finger tighten on the trigger. Then
suddenly he realized it wasn't his heart. SOMEONE WAS TAPPING ON THE
THICK GLASS INSIDE THE CONTROL ROOM.

Spero heard it, too. For a confused moment, his trigger-finger relaxed
as he tried to flick a quick glance toward the source of the sound.

Then the world exploded in his face.


                                  IV

Carl left Spero lying on the floor where he dropped him. Stopping only
to scoop the gun off the floor, he ran to the control room. The tattoo
on the glass stopped when he entered. A face peered in at him--a face
curiously without emotion. It was a hairy-face, except around the eyes
and mouth, where three patches of yellow skin peeked through, giving
the appearance of three yellow bull's eyes.

Carl stared at the creature, fascinated. In his entire stay on Venus,
never had he observed a chowl at such close range. For perhaps five
seconds the chowl stared back at him, then quickly bounded off the ship
and disappeared toward the forest.

He turned. Diane, standing at the entrance to the control room was
regarding him curiously. "They look almost human, don't they?" she said.

"They are human," Carl told her. "Humanoid anyhow according to the
people who are supposed to know about these things. We don't know too
much about them really. They're so timid, it's a novelty to get within
half-a-mile of them."

"This one wasn't."

Carl scratched his head. "I know. It's the first time I've ever got
that close to one. I guess he didn't know what a spaceship was. You
notice he didn't wait very long after he saw us through the window."

"What are you going to do about Spero?" Diane asked suddenly.

Carl walked over to the gun cabinet where he poked around a moment,
then returned with the key. "I don't know," he admitted. He placed both
hands on the girl's shoulders. "Just how much does this immortality
really mean to you?"

Diane appeared to think about it a moment. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure
at all. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I'm not more interested in
finding out how it's accomplished than I am in applying it to myself.
Do you feel that way, too?"

Carl looked out the window.

"I've always felt that way," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spero, aided by Dr. Hamlin, was just beginning to stir when they
returned. He shook his head dazedly for a moment, then sat up massaging
his jaw.

Keating regarded him with a questioning stare. "What do you think we
should do with you?" he asked bluntly.

Spero patted his pockets and came up with a cigarette. After it had
been lighted, he blew the smoke in Carl's direction. "If you were
smart, you'd kill me," he said. "Only you're not smart. You know you
won't, and I know you won't. So suppose we all relax and stop trying to
build up suspense."

Carl dropped his hand inside his pocket, allowing his grip to tighten
around the butt of the needle gun. "What makes you so sure I won't kill
you?" he said. "I could, you know. The fact you know where Edgerton and
his cronies are wouldn't stop me. I could probably find them myself if
I wanted to. And I'm not even sure that I want to."

Spero took a drag on the cigarette and derricked himself to his feet.
"I wasn't thinking of that," he said quietly. "I just happen to know
that you haven't got it in you to kill a man in cold blood, Keating.
I could do it but not you. You got too many principles. The worst you
could bring yourself to do, Keating, would be to put it up to a vote.
And if it came to that, everyone here--probably you included--would
vote to let me off on the promise that I wouldn't do it again. Go
ahead, put it to a vote. See if I'm not right."

Keating let his eyes wander across the cabin.... To Stewart Ferguson,
white-looking, and curiously without comment.... To Diane, outraged
amazement on her face--but still a woman. And to Norman Hamlin,
wondering what made the man tick--but still a doctor. He looked back at
Spero, blowing small curls of smoke at the ceiling.

No, he didn't have to take a vote.

Impulsively, he waved the gun in the direction of the cubbyhole where
Diane had been sleeping. "Get in there," he said tightly.

Spero stubbed out the cigarette, swiveled a tight-lipped smile across
each member of the party, then shrugged his shoulders and shuffled into
the room.

Carl locked the door and stuck the key in his pocket along with the key
to the gun case. While neither of the locks were built for durability,
at least Spero would have to make a noise opening them.

To the others he said: "I'd suggest we make our future plans without
figuring on Spero's cooperation."

"But how can we," Dr. Hamlin said. "We'll have to find Edgerton,
Mitchell and Rhind first. They're the only ones who know the answer to
what we're after."

"The secret of immortality is nothing more than the secret of breathing
the air here," Carl said crisply. "Let's not kid ourselves about that."

"Well, what is the secret?" Hamlin said impatiently. "I'm sure I
haven't the slightest idea."

Carl studied the man intently.

"Haven't you?"

Diane shot him an odd look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hamlin said hotly.

Keating ignored the question and jerked a finger at the window.
"Suppose we leave Spero here and go over and activate the blister. It's
much more comfortable. It'll be a nice change after being cramped up
here for six weeks."

"Suppose you explain that statement first?" Hamlin said.

"There's jumpers in the airlock," Carl went on. "I'll explain after
we're settled over there. Who knows, maybe by that time I'll be ready
to apologize."

"I certainly hope so," Hamlin mumbled. "I can't understand what's got
into everyone all of a sudden."

"This way," Carl said.

Inside the lock, he helped each member of the party into a jumper and
adjusted the air valves. When everything was in order, he pressed a
switch, and the lock-door hissed open.

Another moment, and they were wading through the purple-brown,
ankle-deep slosh of Venus. The blister-building was only about three
hundred yards from the ship, but the rain--coming down in torrents
now--had turned the ground into a soft-slimy ooze that was sometimes
knee deep.

Carl led the way, shouting instructions through the speaker-unit
encased in his helmet. Once when Diane fell, he went back and helped
her to her feet. Through the helmet glass, he could see her face for
a moment. Then she jerked her arm free and plodded on. Behind him he
heard Stewart Ferguson swear.

It took a full twenty minutes to reach the building. It was big. Two
hundred feet in diameter at the base, it sloped out of the sea of mud
like a giant stemless mushroom. Carl led the party around the base to
the far side where the lock-door was situated. Then he stopped.

The rest of the party had caught up with him now. They stood in
a restless semi-circle in front of the great doors. From behind
mud-splattered face-plates, three pairs of eyes were regarding him
curiously. He didn't answer their solemn stare. Instead he continued to
stare at the great lock-doors.

They were open.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a full minute he stared into the darkness, then he touched the
switch of his helmet lamp. The beam, seemingly thick enough to walk
on, stabbed into the cave-like interior. He went in. First, he'd have
to get the pumps working. Then, after the lethal gases had been pumped
out, start the separator motors. Even then, the place wouldn't be
livable for three weeks. He swore.

Abruptly, from behind him, he became aware of three flickering beams
of light. Diane and the two men were following him inside. He turned,
waving his arms backward. "Stay back!" he called. "Wait till I get the
lights working."

He watched them stop.

And then, the lights WERE working. They came on all at once,
illuminating the big structure with dazzling brilliancy. From behind
him, he was aware of the staccato crackle of a squawk-box being readied
for use. Then, like a bass drum in a brick tunnel, a voice boomed out
of the stillness:

"Welcome! Welcome to Venus!"

He stepped back, trying to peer over the row of packing cases. The
voice had originated from the control room at the far end of the
building. He flinched when something touched the sleeve of his jumper,
then relaxed when he saw Diane peering at him through a mud-stained
face-plate. The men had joined him, too, looking at him and shifting
from one foot to the other.

The squawk-box was silent now. Impulsively, Carl allowed his gloved
hand to brush against the butt of the needle pistol holstered in the
webbed-belt of his jumper.

"The gun won't be necessary, I assure you. I'm unarmed!"

The speaker stood at the far end of a corridor of wooden cases,
spotlighted in the glow of an overhead lamp. He was a young man,
with close-cropped sandy-blonde hair. He wore a blue spaceman's
uniform--obviously salvaged from one of the cases.

He remained motionless a moment, like a man waiting for the press
photographers to finish, then walked slowly toward them, his bare hand
extended in greeting.

"I'm Raymond Edgerton," the man said.

Awkwardly, Carl grasped the bare hand with the thick glove of his
jumper. "I know," he said. He was suddenly at a loss for words. What
DID one say at a time like this? Certainly not the time-worn Dr.
Livingston cliche.

Stewart Ferguson said it anyhow.

Carl studied the man carefully, watching the rise and fall of his
breathing. The man WAS breathing--breathing the lethal gases that
should kill him in thirty seconds.

"You find it hard to believe, don't you?" Edgerton said suddenly.

Carl nodded. "I have a nephew who collects stamps," he heard himself
saying. "He has one with your picture on it. It's a rarity now, 'cause
it's almost forty years old, but the picture on the stamp looks just
like you--just like you do NOW!"

"How is it done Mr. Edgerton?" Diane asked pointedly. "Why is it that
you can breathe this air when it kills everyone else?"

Edgerton's eyes narrowed when he heard the voice. Then he leaned
over and peered into the mud-stained face-plate. He smiled. "I'll be
damned," he said. "A woman. A real live woman! Pretty too."

"How is it done?" Diane persisted.

Edgerton's grin faded. He turned to Carl. "You mean you don't know?"

Carl eyed the man, his lips set in an aggravating silence. Then: "Yes,
I know. Or at least I think I know. Furthermore, Dr. Hamlin knows too.
He's known all the time. Obviously, this girl is the only one who's
still in the dark. I think it's about time someone told her."

"Wait!" Dr. Hamlin said.

"Say, what's this all about?" Edgerton said suddenly. "Where's Paul
Spero anyhow? Rhind and Mitchell are waiting!"

Carl flicked a look at Diane, then turned back to her father. "Are you
going to tell her? Or should I?"

"Tell me what?" Diane said. "How does he know about Paul Spero? Spero
told us...."


                                   V

"Spero told us a lot of things," Carl said thickly. "He told us he'd
taken pictures without speaking to anyone. It served his purpose better
to keep us in the dark about how this immortality thing was really
worked until after we got here. After that, he figured he'd take
over and we'd have to go along with him whether we liked it or not.
Furthermore, Ferguson and your father were in on it from the beginning,
weren't you?"

"Please," Dr. Hamlin said nervously, "it's not near as bad as you're
making it out to be. It's only a minor adjustment."

"Minor adjustment!" Carl grasped the arm of Diane's jumper, pulling her
along with him through the long corridors of boxes. At the far end of
the structure, he found what he was searching for. Three boxes--slitted
in front like a zoo cage. And inside the boxes, peering at them through
sad yellow-rimmed eyes--were three chowls.

"There's the answer to your immortality," Carl said grimly. "Rhind and
Mitchell were both doctors--surgeons. Do you get it now?"

Raymond Edgerton and Norman Hamlin had joined them now. "Mr. Keating,"
Edgerton said, "I'm sure if you were a doctor, you wouldn't be
so squeamish about a thing like this. After all, what's a simple
operation?"

"Simple operation!"

Carl reached over clamping his gloved hands on Edgerton's shoulders.
Quickly, he raked the steel-tipped fingers of both hands down the man's
back. There was a tearing noise, as the open-collared shirt ripped
apart at the seams, revealing a broad fleshy back--smooth-looking
except for where an angry gash dipped in a deep U between the shoulder
blades.

He jerked his thumb back to where the chowls were chattering restlessly
in their cages. "In case you don't know it," he said, "chowls are
humanoid. They're the only things on this planet with any sign of
intelligence. Killing them's not only murder. It's worse than murder.
It's genocide! All that has to happen is for this story to get back
to Terra, and you'll have every quack who can wield a scalpel up here
cutting the lungs out of these poor creatures!"

Alongside him, he was aware of Diane getting sick inside her helmet.
Ferguson coughed.

"Since you were apparently aware of this all the time, Keating, just
why did you come along?" Ferguson asked.

"I wasn't aware of it all along. It wasn't till I saw Dr. Hamlin
nursing Spero's jaw that I began to wonder why he wanted a doctor along
in the first place. He needed you to finance the trip, and he needed me
to pilot the ship. But why Dr. Hamlin unless there was some need for
a surgeon? Then I remembered the chowls, and everything began to fall
into place."

Ferguson sat down on one of the wooden cases. "As usual Keating, you're
not being very logical. As a matter of fact, he didn't need the good
doctor at all. He had two doctors right here. Remember?"

Carl nodded. "Yes, I remember," he said grimly. "That was the part of
the puzzle that didn't fit. But now I think I've even got the answer to
that."

"Do tell?"

"Yes, I'll tell you," Carl said ruthlessly. "It was because with all
the build-up these would-be-gods gave you about this immortality
gimmick, they were sick to death of it. They were sick of the
loneliness, sick of the rain, sick of the color of purple. In short,
they were sick of this foul planet and were willing to trade it in for
whatever the earth had to offer them! That's where Dr. Hamlin came in."

Doggedly, Carl spun on Edgerton, trying to draw the tatters of his
shirt back across his back.

"Who's lungs were you going to take, Mr. Edgerton? Mine, or Stewart
Ferguson's?"

He was aware of Diane pulling on his arm. He turned to the two men in
the mud-splattered jumpers. "We're leaving for Terra in an hour," he
said crisply. "Are you coming, or staying?"

Ferguson and Hamlin stared at each other.

"Make up your mind!"

Abruptly, Dr. Hamlin walked over to where Diane was standing. "I'm an
old man," he said. "All I have back on Earth is twenty years at the
most. Stay with me, Diane?"

Breathlessly, Carl watched the girl--watched her shake her head,
slowly. "How about you?" he asked Ferguson.

For a long moment, Ferguson appeared undecided. Then he looked at
Dr. Hamlin. "I'm in trouble back home," he mumbled. "Bad trouble.
They're going to find out about it any day, if they haven't found out
already.... I--I'd better stay."

       *       *       *       *       *

With Diane grasping his arm, Carl started down the long corridor of
packing cases toward the open lock-door.

"I'm sorry it turned out this way," he said. "As soon as we ready the
ship I'll go back and talk to them again. Maybe they'll change their
minds."

Diane didn't answer. Instead she turned a last backward glance toward
her father. It was a long glance. Too long. He was aware of her
steel-tipped fingers digging into the sleeve of his jumper. He wheeled.
Ten feet away, standing in a niche between the wooden cases, was a man.
He wore a regulation space jumper and helmet, and was regarding them
curiously over the barrel of a Westinghouse-chain-rifle. The man spoke:

"I'm interrupting something, I hope," he said evenly.

The man was Paul Spero.

Carl eyed the man warily. Diane choked out a heavy gasp.

"You should have killed me back in the ship like I suggested," Spero
said smugly. "Now I'm going to have to kill you instead."

Carl flicked a quick look at Diane. "What about her? Are you planning
to kill her too?"

The overhead light sparkled briefly across the rifle barrel as Spero
snapped the weapon to his shoulder. Across the sights he said: "Diane
will stay here with me. That's the way I planned it and that's how
it'll be."

"I know I'm interfering with your plans," Carl said with mock-concern,
"but I don't think she is. Not unless she wants to of course."

From behind the face-plate, Spero flashed a double row of teeth. "Stop
stalling for time, Keating. You had your chance on the ship, and you
muffed it. Now it's my turn!"

Carl waited--waited while Spero's gloved hand tightened against
the trigger-switch. The bolt coil snapped back. There was a dull
click--nothing else....

"Did you really think I'd be stupid enough to leave you alone with a
case full of live guns?" Keating said thinly.

Bewildered, Spero snapped the rifle down to chest level, fumbling
awkwardly with the trigger assembly.

"It won't work," Carl said indulgently. "Before we left the ship I
removed the anodes from every gun in the case. It's an old army trick,
in case you haven't heard."

With Spero glaring at him, Carl allowed his arm to brush against his
own needle gun. He didn't bother to draw.

"I think your friends are waiting for you," he said.

Back in the control room, Carl went through the motions of readying
the ship for take-off. Back in the galley he could hear Diane sobbing
softly.

Idly, he glanced out of the amber blister ports toward the big
sphere-like structure that rose out of the sea of purple mud. It looked
evil, and ominous-looking against the rain-sodden backdrop of the saroo
forest.

Then from the edge of the tree line, moving shapes suddenly began to
make an appearance. He rubbed his eyes. There were hundreds--no,
thousands of them. Slowly and curiously they poured out of the
rain-soaked forest, deliberately converging on the open lock-doors of
the huge, white building. Some were carrying sticks, some stones, some
nothing. It was as if the mystic forces of evolution had chosen this
exact moment to endow the chowls with an emotion hitherto lacking in
their makeup. Call it hate; call it self-preservation; call it anything
you like, it was something they hadn't had before, yet needed badly.

Quickly, he bit off the half-formed cry that rose to his throat. Diane
was still back in the galley. He was glad she wasn't watching. Actually
there was no need for her to know about it ever.

Silently he made a vow never to tell her--even as a few moments ago
they'd both vowed to keep another secret: The secret that could spell
the life or death of an entire planet.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64190 ***