BEYOND LIGHT-1
574 Words
BEYOND LIGHT
Venus was civilized ... so the Universe thought! But deep in its midnight caverns ... beyond light, beyond the wildest imaginings of an ordered System ... dwelt Horror.
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THEY STOOD IN THE ORESTES’ tiny observation turret, Mallory’s defiant arm still tight about the slim and lovely girl, just exactly as bull-voiced Captain Lane had found them. The shimmering reflection of the planet Venus, only a few thousand miles ahead, bathed the trim, hard-jawed man and the softly pretty girl in a gentle glow, but it failed to soothe the grizzled space ship skipper.
“What in hell does this mean?”
Mallory, remembering an old forgotten saying—something about a soft answer turning aside wrath—spoke rapidly. “Sorry if we gave you a shock, sir,” he said. “But your daughter and I are engaged.”
Few medical men would have guaranteed Space Captain Jonathan Lane a long life at that moment. His usually ruddy face was a violent mauve-scarlet, his eyes hot pin-points of anger, his lean, hard body was atremble with emotion.
“Engaged. Engaged!” He made a convulsive motion. “Did you say engaged? To this inane young fool. You’re talking nonsense. Go to your cabin, girl.”
Dorothy Lane sighed and looked hopefully up at Mallory.
Tim Mallory had forgotten his old and wise quotation.
“Why not engaged,” he snapped. “What have you got against me?”
“What,” growled Captain Lane. “He asks me what!”
He had a reason; one which he shared with all fond parents who have ever seen a beloved child slipping from their arms—jealousy. Jealousy and grief. Now his mind pounced on a substitute for the true reasons that he would not—could not—name.
“Well, for one thing,” he said curtly, “you’re not a spaceman. You’re nothing but a blasted Earthlubber!”
Mallory grinned.
“You can hardly call me an Earthlubber, Captain. I spent two years on Luna, three on Mars; I’ll be five or more on Venus—”
“Pah! Luna ... Mars ... Venus ... you’re still a groundhog. I’ll not see my girl married to a money-grubbing businessman, Mallory.”
“Tim’s not a businessman,” broke in Dorothy Lane. “He’s an engineer.” And anyone seeing her young fury would have smiled to note how much alike she was to her bucko, space captain father.
“Engineer! Nonsense! Only an astrogation engineer deserves that title. He’s a—a—What is it you do? Build ice-boxes?”
“I’m a calorimetrical engineer,” Mallory answered stiffly. “My main job is the designing and installation of air-conditioning plants where they are needed. On airless Luna, the cold Martian deserts, here on Venus. The simple truth is—”
“The simple truth is,” stated the skipper savagely, “that you’re a groundhog and a damned poor son-in-law for a spaceman. You being what you are, and Dorothy being what she is, I say the hell with you, Mr. Mallory! Perhaps I can’t prevent your marriage. But there’s one thing I can do—and that is wash my hands of the two of you!”
He watched them, searching for signs of indecision in their eyes. He found, instead—and with a sense of sickening dread—only sorrow. Sorrow and pity and regret. And Tim Mallory said quietly, “I’m sorry, sir, that you feel that way about it.”
Lane turned to his daughter.
“Dorothy?” he said hoarsely.
“I’m sorry, too.” Her voice was gentle but determined. “Tim is right. We—” Then her eyes widened; sudden panic lighted them, and her hand flew to her lips in a gesture of fear. “Something’s wrong! Venus! The ship—!”
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