Battle on Venus

decided that if he were reading the screens aright, there were no prominences immediately beneath them.

If there was an underside to the clouds, and time and space to maneuver, he might be able to accomplish a little something with the side jets. Meantime, he could only sit and watch and let the increasing up-pressure try to wrap his chair around his ears.

A glacial age passed. It was all of five minutes long. Then they were in the clouds. By moving his eyes (it was nearly impossible to turn his head) Freiburg could cover all the screens and the porthole. The yellow light deepened to amber. It was like a swift dusk. The photo-electric cell responded and the interior lighting snapped on. Beyond the glare shield the daylight faded to a dull glow. The clouds were something more than just water vapor or carbon dioxide.

Around the height of 17,000 metres, the first explosion happened. A flash somewhere outside sent a brief yellow flare into the cabin. The ship rang like a gong and seemed to jump sidewise. It shook and tilted. The gyroscopes pulled it back on balance.

The same thing happened again. Then again. Yellow flashes and the ship jumping every which way, and the thuds of heavy explosions outside. It was hell to sit there inert as lead, unable to speak. The two men questioned each other with their eyes. What’s happening? What’s gone wrong?

The Captain thought: I’ve misread the screens. I’m trying to set her down on an active volcano. The luck of Jonah.

George thought: What are these clouds made of? Have we started a chemical reaction in them through friction?

There was another flash and jarring shock. Then it began to get lighter outside. The Captain was aware of it although he was concentrating on the altimeter now.

11,000 metres.

There was an underside to the clouds and the ship was falling out of it, ever more slowly. Freiburg stole a look at the TV. The surface of Venus was visible, in a dull gray light, like a rainy late afternoon. There were mountains in the distances, whole ranges of them, white-capped. Below was a rolling plain, dun-colored but with patches of dirty green.

During the moments of his glance, the TV registered a white flash some distance away and below. From the flash a ball of black smoke expanded swiftly and shot out ragged tentacles. The ship’s jets tore into the black wisps and shredded them.

Then he understood. The flashes were shell-bursts. They were being fired at by some archaic anti-aircraft artillery or guided missile battery. The motives might be mad but the effects were comprehensible. He felt calmer. He could see what was happening and knew what he must do; take evasive action.

His finger on the chair-arm switched off automatic control. At the same time he eased his foot onto the pedal governing the speed of efflux ejection. To hell with the computer: he’d handle it himself.

The ship, which had been slowing, dropped suddenly like an elevator starting down. This relief from the overplus of g’s lifted them momentarily from their seats.

“Going… to… land?” George asked, in jerks.

“Have to.” The Captain hadn’t time to explain to a nonspaceman just why you couldn’t reverse a rocket in mid-air and have it lift you out of range. The only chance was this sudden duck under and the hope that the guns—if they were guns—would lose you on the ground. Maybe there was a dip or hollow, some dead ground…

There was small opportunity, though, to look for such a spot. They were approaching the ground much too fast. His foot moved again on the pedal. The impetus was checked with a suddenness which drove the air from their lungs with sharp groans.

The harsh check threw the Captain’s foot away from the pedal. He tried to recover control and his breath simultaneously. The ground was awfully near. He got in a last burst before they hit. It was enough to save their lives. But the impact hurled them from their chairs.

The ship was motionless now, nose-upward, erect. A civilian might have thought everything was fine, no harm done. If necessary, the ship could soon take off again and get to hell out of it.

But Jonah Freiburg knew he had wrecked another ship. If only he hadn’t interfered and so invited his own brand of bad luck. The programmed electronic brain wouldn’t have forgotten to lower the landing gear, the spider-legged shock-absorber.

But Jonah Freiburg had forgotten. Blame it on the stress of being under fire, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the critical moment. Blame it on what you like. But Freiburg knew where the blame should be laid, fairly and squarely: upon his own inadequacy.

He also knew what that impact must have done to the ship’s fins. They weren’t designed to stand up to that sort of thing. If they were bent only a little out of straight, it would be suicide to attempt to take off again. The ship would begin to spin and veer and end up out of control.