 Part four of Venus Enslaved by Manly Wade Wellman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part four. Planter's blood was still up because of that brisk battle with Dispro. He was young, strong, in guilt-edge condition. His new impulse was to keep on fighting against the thing which had the size, the intention, and apparently the appetite to engulf him. The huge swimmer was a skygore of tremendous size. Logic in the back of Planter's head bade him not to be amazed. On this damp, fecund world, monsters of such sort were not too unthinkable. As it broke surface, he heard a hubbub like many steam sirens. The smaller skygores on housetops and bridges were all chanting some sort of ear-bursting litany, waving their flippers in unison. Plainly they worshipped this giant of their race. He, Planter, was a gift, a sacrifice. He swam speedily, but his pursuer was speedier still. With ponderous overhand strokes it overhauled him. An arm as long as his body, with a flipper hand like a tremendous scoop shovel, extended to clutch at him. A mouth like an open trunk gaped large enough to gulp him bodily. Only one thing to do. He did it, dived at once, turning under water and darting below and in an opposite direction from the great swimmer. By pure happy chance his kicking feet struck the soft cushion of its mighty belly, and he heard the thrumming gasp of the wind he knocked out of it. Coming up beyond, he swam desperately toward a nearby building, if he could climb up away from this huge hungry being. No, not here. That was a skygore poking its ugly smirking face from a window-hole. He tried to seize the sill to draw himself out of the water, and it lifted a dagger to slash at his knuckles. But then it gasped, wriggled. The paw opened, then I fell. Planter managed to catch it as it struck the water. A moment later he saw what had happened. Big human hands were fastened on the slimy throat from behind. The skygore struggling was pulled back out of sight, and its place showed the flat, simple features of Max. Uh! gurgled Max. You in trouble, Mr. Planter! He put out a hand to help. At the same moment a monstrous flipper struck at Planter, driving him deep underwater. He filled his lungs with air at the last moment, spun and tried to kick away. His enemy had its hooked claws in his clothing, and was drawing him toward the dark cavern of its mouth. Planter struck with the knife he had snatched, and buried the blade in the slimy green lower lip of the creature. He'd let go, and a cloud of blood, red as the blood of Earth's creatures, suddenly obscured the water, so that Planter could attempt another escape. He reached the top once again. The giant held itself half out of the water, big and grotesque as some barbaric sculpture. One webbed hand held against its wounded mouth. As Planter came into view, its big, bitter eyes caught sight of him, dropping its hand. It howled at him. All the sky gores at their watch-post echoed that howl, and began to repeat their uncouth literally once again. The monster pursued as before. But from his watch-tower Max threw his burly, pugilist's body. Coarsely built Max might have been. Stupid he undoubtedly was. Cowardly and clumsy he was not. As he flung himself into space, he shifted so that his feet were down. He drove them hard between the shoulders of the huge sky-gourd demon, and the impact of his flying weight drove it under water. Get out of here, yelled Max at Planter. Get out! He had time for no more, for he too submerged. Planter clasped his knife in his teeth, and turned in the water. He could not desert that plucky rescuer. Writing itself the big sky-gourd grimaced under the troubled, gory surface. It was having trouble, more trouble than ever before, in its freakish, idle, overstuffed life as deity and champion of the community. Two alien dwarves, of a species it had looked on hitherto as only enticing meat, were viciously attacking and wounding it. Planter was overlaid by a stern lust for vengeance. It spied one of the enemy very close, swimming away. Max was not as much home in the water as Planter, and he could not dodge its grasping talons. Treading water, the thing hoisted him clear as a child might lift a kitten. Its other part struck him with open-webbed palm, hard as a mule's kick. Max went limp. Once again that awful mouth opened to its full extent. No, you don't! cried Planter, battling his way close. For a second time he drove with the knife, sheathing it to the hilt in a slate-colored chest close to an armpit. A fountain of blood sprang forth, drenching his face in weapon-hand. He dragged strongly downward, felt his weapon-point grating on bone, then coming free. That was a terrible wound, but not a disabling one. In a frenzy of pain and rage, the sky-gourd giant threw Max far into the water and whirled to look at its other tormentor. But Planter had dived yet again. The fresh blood obscured his passage as before. He came up, panted for air, and seized the limp wrist of Max. As he kicked away for sure he heard the whine and splat of a missile. The sky-gores were shooting at him. He bobbed under, bringing Max with him. As he fought through the water he felt his friend quiver and beat with his hands. He felt fierce joy, Max was alive, he too would escape. He had to come up. Back down, Planter, Max told him at once, they're going to give us another volley. His voice was suddenly intelligent, his words sensible and articulate. Planter took the advice, swam forward again. Sure as that way, said Max, when they came up, can you make it, give me your hand. The ex-pugilist was climbing over a tangle of roots to solid ground at last. Planter made shift to follow him. What happened? Planter barely whispered. Max laughed very cheerfully. Heh! What a wallop that sea elephant has! I guess it knocked my senses back into me. Another belt dizzyed me back on earth so it's logical that—yes, logical. Max was no longer a dim stupid child in a big man's body. Planter felt himself weakening. He had fought himself out. Even as he turned toward the jungle, he stumbled and fell, rolled over on his back. He could see the whole surface of the water-city. Skygores were coming in throngs to recapture him, crowded aboard their inflated boats or swimming. For ahead of them something like an awful goblin was scrambling out. The mighty freak he and Max had dodged up to now. He stood erect on powerful, awkward legs, its eyes probing here and there to pick up the trail of its prey. Planter tried to tell Max to run, but his strength and breath were spent. He could only lie and watch. Max had torn up a kind of sapling, whirled at a loft like a club. The tottering colossus approached them, heavily and grimly. Grinned relentlessly, its bloody muzzle opened and slavoured. Out of the jungle moved another figure. A smaller Skygore? No. Mara! She sprang across the prostrate form of Planter. He managed to rise to an elbow just as she planted herself in the way of the oncoming destruction. It loomed high above her, paws lifted to seize and crush her, but she had lifted her crossbow. Pale fire flashed, the string hummed. At a scant five feet of distance she slammed a pin-missile full into the thing's immense chest. It staggered back from her, its face gone into a terrible oversized mask of awful pain. Those great legs, like dark gnarled stumps, bowed and bent. It fell uncouthly, supported itself on spread hands. Planter could see the hole Mara had burned in it, a great red raw pit the size of a bushel basket. Then it was down, motionless, dead. Max had helped Planter up. Can you run? he was demanding. No, no! Mara interposed, hurrying back to them. Not run! Fight! Fight! Planter echoed rather idiotically. Fight the Skygores! See! Your friends have come! Through the jungle to the water's edge pressed other human figures in terrestrial overalls and helmets. A slim, square-faced man in the neatest of overall costumes had grabbed Planter's elbow. It was beginning to rain again, thunder-sounded, like Skygores grumbling high in the mist. Quick, said the square-faced man, your Planter, aren't you, and that other man, but where's this, bro? Planter pointed toward the water-city. Who are you? he demanded, as if they had all day. Dr. Hammerson, commanding this new expedition, ten of us in the big new ship started when they reported you landed safely. We cracked up, not far from where your ship bogged down. This girl found us, said whatever she said was true, caught in Planter. Quick, defend yourself against those Skygores. They'll defend themselves against us, rejoined Dr. Hommerson Bleakly, if they're smart and if they're lucky. These companions had formed a sort of skirmish line among the thickest stems at the water's edge. With a variety of weapons, force rifles, machine guns, one or two portable grenade-throwers, they had opened up on the Skygores. The amphibian dwellers in the water-city had started to chase Planter and Max, but the destruction of their giant kinsmen had daunted and immobilized them. Now they had something else to shake their courage which was never too great. Well-aimed shots were picking them off, in the boats, in the water, on the house-tops and bridges. Don't show yourselves more than is necessary, Dr. Hommerson was barking. If they know there's only a handful of us, they might— He unlimbered a patent pistol, one with a long barrel, a magazine of fourteen rounds in the stock, and a wooden holster that could fit into a slot and pharma makeshift butt like that of a rifle, lifting this to his shoulder. He began to shoot at such of the Skygores as still showed themselves. Mara had rushed to Planterside. They're retreating, she cried. The spell remembered the spell. True enough he'd forgotten that wild, unmanning storm of noise that defended Skygore country that had knocked him into their webbed fingers as a captive enslave might begin at any moment. When now the Skygores were retiring inside their buildings, but with a certain purposeful orderliness. As Planter watched, Max ran up to his other side. She's telling the truth. I know all about the thing they sound off. He said breathlessly in his new, knowing voice. When I was with Dispro, working for him, I had a look at it. Stop your ears! Mara was bidding. Quick! A rag from your garment will do. She ripped away part of Planter's shirt, tore the piece in two, and thrust wads into his ears with her forefinger. Max was plugging his own ears. Then the sound began. When it began nobody could say. Suddenly it was there, filling space with his self as though it were a crushing solid thing. Planter, even with his ears partially muffled, almost collapsed. His body vibrated as before in every fiber, only not unendurably. He saw Max real but still in his feet. Dr. Hummerson's men, a moment ago almost in the victor's position, were down, floundering and half-crazy agony. Planter understood, in that rear compartment of his mind that was always diagnosing strange things even in the moment of worst danger. The Skygores were ill-cultured, poor of spirit, prospered chiefly by ideas stolen from the human beings they enslaved, but they understood sound waves could use them roughly as an electrician might use electric vibrations. They were all the tales he had heard of a cord on the organ that shattered window-panes of certain orators who could employ voice frequencies to spellbind and impassion their audiences. This was something like that only more so. Then he saw that Mara, who had thought of saving his ears, was down at his feet. Mara, he cried, though nobody could have heard him. He knelt, ripping away more rags of his shirt. He crammed them furiously into her ears. She stirred, got to her knees. She too could endure it now, and she smiled at him, drawnly. I knew you would come back, her lips farmed the words. David Planter, my David Planter. Then she was up, crossbow with a ready, because back came the Skygores, a wave of them in boats and S-swimmers. Sure of their victory through sound they were going to mop up the attackers. Max had a rifle. He lifted it, but on inspiration Planter leaped at him and gestured for him to hold fire. From beside one of the fallen terrestrials he caught a grenade thrower. It was a simple amplification of an ordinary rifle. Upon the muzzle fitted a metal device like a bottomless bottle, the neck clamping tight to the barrel. Into the spread body of the bottle could be slid a cylindrical grenade, the size and shape of a condensed milk-tin. The grenade was pierced with a hole, and the gun, if fired, would send its bullet through that hole while the gases of the exploding power operated to hurl the grenade far and forcibly and accurately. Planter had never used one, but he had seen them used. A quick check showed him that the rifle's magazine was full. From the belt of the fallen man he twitched a grenade, slipped it into place. He knelt, placed the rifle but on the soggy mass of rotting vegetation that made up the sureside jungle-floor. By guess he slanted his weapon about forty-five degrees forward. The foremost press of Skygor is approached. Bang! At planter's trigger-touch the grenade rose upward. For a moment the three conscious watchers could see it, outlined against the upper mists at the hesitating apex of its flight. Then it fell, too far to demoralize the first ranks of Skygor's, but smashing two inflated boats in its explosion and tossing several slimy green forms like chips through the air. Planter slid in another grenade, worked the rifle-boat and raised the weapon to his shoulder. It spoke again, louder even than the din of the noisemaker Mara called the spell. This time it struck water among the leading Skygor's and exploded on contact. Three or four sank abruptly. Several more thrashed the water into pinky-red foam in the pain of bad wounds. The rest wavered. Now Max opened fire with his rifle and Mara with her crossbow. Both scored hits and the Skygor's gave back. Something was going wrong, they were realizing. The destroying sound was not paralyzing their enemy. And while it was best to take cover, some ducked under the waters, others fell back toward the buildings. Dynamidam! cried Planter, forgetting that he could not be heard. Stooping! he stripped away the whole beltful of grenades from its helpless owner. He whirled it around his head as though he were throwing a hammer on an athletic field and sent it flying out over the water. The shock of its fall into the depths set it off, all grenades at once. Skygor's came bounding to the top, twitching feebly. The explosion had destroyed them as fish are destroyed by the shock of detonating dynamite in nearby waters. Then the paralyzing noise stopped. Homerson was the first man up. He was dazed and groggy, but fight was the first impulse that woken him. Mara, Max, and Planter dragged others to their feet, shook and shouted their senses back into them. They're retreating, Planter yelled. Let's counter-attack. Close into the shore drifted one of the abandoned boats. Max had run into the water, dragging it closer. The terrestrials tumbled aboard and one of them got the paddle-wheel running. Planter at the bow, directing fire at any Skygor's who showed their heads, saw that Mara had not come along. He worried a moment, then worried no more. She was shouting in the jungle and other voices, feminine voices, answered her. More of the crossbow girls were coming to help. The boat made a landing at the building where Planter had first been dragged to slavery. It was not made for defense and the invaders split into small parties, ranging the corridors and outer bridges. Planter, hurrying downstairs, heard the splat of the Skygor pin-missiles with a replying crackle of gunfire. After a while Mara and other girls began to shout and shatter. They had also found a boat and had come over. On the floor above the basement where the slaves worked he came face to face with a Skygor who lifted his arms appealingly in the surrender gesture that must be universal among all creatures who have arms. I want no fight, beg this one. You are master. Then come downstairs, snapped Planter. He clattered down among the slaves. Stop work, he bawled almost as loudly as the Skygor, and the men, bred to obey big voices, did so. Outside was Planter's next command. One or two moved to obey, others hung back. Outside, the surrendered Skygor echoed Planter and they came obediently. Planter hurried them to their quarters, then slammed the door to the big workshop. That closes down your power-plants, he commented to the Skygor. Now quick, which way to the controls of the dam? Dam? The Skygor repeated stupidly. Planter caught the green shoulders and shook the creature roughly. It was larger than he, but coward. I will show, it yielded and let him away. In a nearby corridor were huge handles, three of them like pivoted clinker-bars. Planter seized one, pulled it down. He heard waters roaring, he pulled another. You will drain the pool, protested the Skygor. I want to drain the pool, Planter said. Then the Skygor caught the third lever and pulled it down. Planter hurried upstairs again, his prisoner kept at his heels. Why did you help me? He asked it. Because you conquer, was the booming reply, the conquered must obey. I think you believe that stuff like the slaves, Planter sniffed. Of course I believe, responded the Skygor. From the upper levels came Homerson's voice. Planter, these frog-folks are giving up. They haven't any fight left in them. But Planter paused on a landing. He looked into a small office where two human figures stood close together. One was Max, the other was Dispro. Max had Dispro by the throat, not shaking or wrestling him, only squeezing. Max, called Planter, why—why not, countered Max plausibly? Planter, I think maybe you were the thick-headed one. You always tried to get along with Dispro as if he was honest. I was a crazy house case, but from the first I knew he was wrong. It took the return of sense to understand that the only thing to do was this. He let go and Dispro fell on the floor like an empty suit of clothes. Max brushed his hands together as if to clear them of dust. I wonder how long I've wanted to do that, he said. Let's go and watch the final mop-up. Out of the mud-pool where once a snake-armed caroo had pursued Planter, the combined strength of many arms was hoisting the bogged ship. Cables had been woven through pulley-blocks at the tops of the biggest and strongest pool sidestems. Three men of Venus, once slaves, hauled on these cables in brief concerted rhythms. Here and there in the rope-gangs toiled a sky-gore, accepting defeat and companionship with the same mild grace. Women, free women, laughed and encouraged, and now and then threw themselves into the tugging labour that was a game. Max oversaw everything. Nearby Machete had hewn a little clearing. There a waterproof tent over a beehive-framework sheltered Planter and Dr. Humerson. They watched as the ship, its bow-rockets toiling to help the tugging cables, finally stirred out of its bed. Humerson smiled. Time to hold a sort of recapitulation, isn't it? As in the old-fashioned mystery yarns, when the case is solved and the danger done away with, of course it all happened suddenly, but we can say this much. The sky-gore mistake was that of every softened master-setup. They had a half-rigged defense against mild dangers and never looked for real trouble. They beat that 17th-century space expedition simply because terrestrials of that day hadn't the proper weapons. Otherwise, man might have been ruling here for four hundred years and more. The sky-gores did have one tremendous device, observed Planter. It's super siren that deadens you by sound-waves. Humerson laughed, and which, providentially, did what all clockwork mechanisms are apt to do, ran down. It's dismantled now, anyway. We're a fuel-engine civilization, and the sky-gores will have to wonder and admire a while before they steal our new tricks. Planter fingered another trophy of the battle, a great brass-bound logbook, old and yellowed, but still readable. This answers more riddles, he put in. The record of those ancient fugitives from Cromwell. Who'd have thought that their times could produce a successful flight from planet to planet? It was a great century, reminded Humerson. Don't forget that they also invented the microscope, the balloon, the principle of maneuverable armies. Their century began with Francis Bacon, and ended with serve Isaac Newton. That rocket-jewel, which the sky-gores only half understood and used for ammunition, doctor, broken Planter, do you remember the old Puritan tales of witches flying on what seemed like broomsticks? And Cyrano de Bergerac, in France about 1640, riding a tail of a rocket to the moon? We simply forgot that they had something, then. The real complete knowledge flew here to Venus, and waited for our age to develop it again from the beginning. It was so. Planter pondered a while, and while he pondered, one of the expedition came in to make a report. We can send back three in this ship when it's set, he said to Humerson. Who are you taking, sir? These two who survived the earlier flight, Planter and his big tough friend, the rest of you can wait and develop a landing-field. Planter spoke. Did you see the girl called Mara out there? She was watching us, said the man. Finally she went into the jungle. With no message for me? No message for anybody. Dr. Humerson, said Planter, pick someone else instead of me. Here I stay. Then looked up sharply. Until the next ship comes. Here I stay, repeated Planter, from now on. He sought a certain jungle trail when he had traversed before. Mara, he called down it. She was not hard to catch up with, for she was not walking fast. As he came alongside she looked at him with eyes too bright to be dry. You came to bid goodbye? She suggested. He shook his head. The mist seemed less than ever before on Venus. No, never goodbye. Isn't the ship leaving? Leaving all right, but not with me in it. This is home now. She looked down at her sandal feet and one hand played with the dagger in her belt. Me thought you would be glad to regain earth. Earth? Other people gained it long ago. He pulled her hand away from the dagger-hilt. Stop fiddling with that stabbing-iron. There's no fighting to be done just now. You said I was yours, he told her furiously. You said it just as if you'd won me in a game of some sort. And you brushed it aside without answering me. You had none of it. Seeing it, Mara, a man decides those things. And I've been deciding them. You're the bravest creature I ever knew. The most graceful, the most honest. You did love me once. Have you stopped? I have not stopped, she said. But why have you waited to say these words? I haven't had time, and I'm going to have little time for a while. What with organization and building and food-hunting and colonizing, but her mouth close at hand was too delectable. He kissed her fiercely. She jumped away, startled. Then uttered a little breathless laugh. Ah, that likes me well, she told him. Let us do it again. End of Part Four End of Venus Enslaved By Manly Wade Wellman This story performed by Phil Chenevere