Astounding Science Fiction (UK Edition) — page 29: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

SYMBIOTICA abruptly wiped away the grin. “Hey, don’t you be sick over me!” “It’s the light,” I pointed out. “You look Jike something floating in the scuppers of a Moon-tripper.” “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t mention it.” We stood there looking out and waiting for the general summons to the conference which usually preceded the first venture out of the ship. I was counting on maintaining my lucky streak by being picked out of the hat, and Brennand was itching to stamp his dogs outside, too. But the summons didn’t come. After a while, Brennand said, “The skip- per’s slow. What’s holding him back?” “No idea.” I had another look at his lep- rous face. It was awful. Judging by his ex- pression, he wasn’t enamored of my features either. “You know what a cautious guy McNulty is. Guess that spree we had on Mechanistria persuaded him to count a hundred before giving an order.” “Yeah,” agreed Brennard. “Ill go forward and see what’s cooking.” 3 He went along the passage. I couldn’t go with him because I had to stand by the armory. You could never tell when they'd come for my stuff, and they had a habit of coming on the run. Brennand mooched disconsolately around the farther corner and had hardly gone when sure enough the exploring party barged in shouting for equipment. There were six of them: Molders, an engineer; Jepson, a navigating officer; Sam Hignett, our Negro surgeon, young Wilson and two Martians, Kli Dreen and Kli Morg. “Huh, lucky again?” I growled at Sam, tossing him his needle ray and sundry odd- ments. “Yes, sergeant.” Sam’s very white teeth glistened in his black face as he smiled with satisfaction. “The skipper says nobody’s to go out afoot until we’ve first scouted around in No. 4 lifeboat.” Kli Morg got his needler in a long, snaky tentacle, waved the thing with bland disre- gard for everybody’s personal safety, and chirruped, “Give Dreen and me our hel- mets.” 3 “Helmets?” I looked from him to the Terrestrials. “You guys want spacesuits, too?” “No,” replied Jepson “The stuff outside is up to fifteen pounds and so rich in oxy- 27 gen you whizz while you think you're just ambling along.” “Mud,” snapped Kli Morg. mud. Give us our helmets.” He got the helmets. These Martians were so accustomed to the three pounds atmos- pheric pressure of their native planet that anything heavier bothered them no end. “Just like _That’s why they had the use of the star- board air lock in which pressure was kept down to suit their taste. They could endure heavy pressure for a limited time, but sooner or later they’d wax unsociable and act like somebody had burdened them with all the world’s woes. We Terrestrials helped the pair of Mar- tians to clamp down their goldfish bowls and exhaust the air to what they considered comfortable. If I'd lent a hand with this job once, I’d done it fifty times and it still seemed as wacky as ever. It isn’t right that guys should be happy breathing in short whiffs. Jay Score lumbered lithely into the armory just as I'd got all the clients decor- ated like Christmas trees. He leaned his three hundred pounds on the tubular barrier, which promptly groaned. He got off it quickly. His strong face was as impassive as ever, his eyes brilliant with their un- earthly light. Shaking the barrier to see if it was wrecked, I told him, “The trouble with you is that you don’t know your own strength.” “No?” he inquired, with utter lack of tone. He turned his attention to the others. “The skipper wants you to be extra careful. We can’t permit any copy of what happened to Haines and his crew. Don’t fly below one thousand feet, keep the autocamera running, keep eyes skinned and beat it back here im- mediately you find anything worth report- ing.” “Sure, Jay.” Molders slung a couple of ammo belts over one arm. “We'll be care- ful.” They trailed out. Shortly, the lifeboat _ broke free with a squeaky parody of the Marathon’s deep-throated, sonorous drum- ming. It curved sharply into the green light, soared over the huge trees and diminished to a dot. Brennand came back, stood by the port, watched the boat vanish. ‘“McNulty’s as leery as an old maid with a penitentiary out back.” “He’s got plenty of reason,” I pointed out. “He’s all the explaining to do when we return.” comiclbooks (©