Hot Trip for Venus
Imaginative Tales – July 1957
(1957)*
Randall Garrett

Alex Mayne knew somebody wanted to keep him out of the spacelanes. And that could only mean someone was afraid he'd learn about the—

-

	THE CARGO SHIP Lightfoot stood poised at the end of the Nevada Flats spaceport, ready to blast off. At its controls Alex Mayne ran down the final check watching lights click on and off as he tallied the fuel, checked the computer, cleared the orbit.

	"Okay, Central, I'm ready," he said finally. He put his fingers lightly on the blasting panel, waiting for clearance. "Am awaiting go-ahead."

	"Hold it up, Mayne," a voice from the control tower told him. "We're still checking some things."

	Mayne tapped his fingers impatiently against the panel. "Okay, I'll wait. But my orbit's only got a tolerance of three minutes, so hurry it up."

	A moment later, the radio crackled again. "Sorry, Mayne, but you'll have to get out of that ship. You can't take off."

	"What?"

	"That's right," the impersonal voice said. "We're sending Relief Pilot Anderson to Venus in your place. Report here immediately."

	"Why?" Mayne asked. "What the hell's wrong? I've got flight clearance for this, and if you louse up my orbit—"

	"I'm sorry, Mayne, but you don't have flight clearance. Your blastoff certificate's been revoked."

	For a moment, Mayne froze, not thinking of moving. His blastoff certificate revoked? Impossible! A spaceman without a certificate was like a singer without a voice, like an athlete without legs, like a painter without eyes. Finished . . .

	His lips tightened. "Look here, Central. There's no reason why anything like that should happen. I'm leaving in exactly thirty seconds. One. Two."

	"Hold it, Mayne! You take that ship off the ground and we'll blast you out of the skies. This is a direct order: get out of that ship and report to Administration."

	Mayne's fingers hovered over the blasting keys and stayed there as indecision gripped him. Central was right—if he made an unauthorized blastoff, they'd track him and blow him to molecules quick enough—and even if he got away, he'd be finished as a pilot from that moment on.

	He glanced out the viewplate and saw his relief coming toward him over the field, accompanied by a couple of other men. That clinched it. If he blasted off now, the heat of his jets would kill three innocent men. It would be premeditated murder.

	Mayne heard someone banging at the airlock, and a faint, tinny cry of "Open up!"

	"Okay," he yelled disgustedly. "I'm opening."

	He pressed the stud that operated the lock mechanism and it swung open. Don Anderson, the lanky young relief pilot, entered, with two other men that Mayne recognized as groundside mechanics.

	"Hello, Mayne," Anderson said self-consciously. "They tell me I'm making this run for you."

	"So I hear," Mayne said, measuring himself against the other. "I'd like to know what for."

	Anderson shrugged. "Beats me. I just do what they tell me. Bud and Joe here'll escort you over to Central. Seems they want to see you about something."

	Mayne nodded and got ready. He calculated that if he could somehow overpower the three of them and tie them up, he could check out in Anderson's name. He had to make this run. He had to—

	"You'll have to recalculate the orbit," he said. "Mine's no good now. Come over here, and I'll show you."

	Anderson stepped toward Mayne, who rocketed a punch up from his knees that sent the relief pilot staggering backward. Mayne followed with a right below the heart, and turned to confront the two mechanics.

	They came at him from both sides. He landed a couple of good punches, then felt a fist slide past his guard and thud into his stomach, and another catch him off the cheekbone and spin his head around. Dizzily he tried to fight them off, but he couldn't manage the job. They went over him very efficiently for almost a minute, until he put up his hand weakly. "Okay! Lay off!"

	"You going to come without a fight, now?"

	"I'll come," Mayne said bitterly.

	One of the mechanics turned to Anderson, who was fingering a swelling lump on the side of his jaw. "You all right?"

	"I'll manage," the relief pilot said. "Get him out of here and let me get going on my run."

	Mayne scowled. "This is a put-up job, Anderson. You're not going to let them yank away my certificate like that, are you?"

	"Listen, Mayne, this isn't my idea," Anderson said. "I take what assignments I get."

	"Come on," one of the mechanics growled. "Let's go, Tarzan. This crate has to take off, and we can't wait on you."

-

	HE LET THEM half-drag, half-push him across the dark expanse of the spacefield toward the gleaming needle of the Administration Building at the far end of the field. Once they crossed the red line that marked the danger zone, Mayne saw a bright flash of light spring from the dome of Administration, signalling clearance.

	The Lightfoot spouted flame and rose on a noisy jet barrage, hung frozen for a moment, then vanished Venusward. Mayne watched it go.

	My ship, he thought dismally. There goes my ship, and I'm not on it. I've been grounded.

	The word was like dirt in his mouth. Grounded. Now, of all times to be grounded, when so much hung on this flight, when so much desperate urgency rode behind it. He stared upward at the place where his ship had been, then  turned and let the mechanics take him to Administration.

	He entered the Administration Building, passed through the doors that opened at his approach, and into Routing Control. A man in Universal Spacelines uniform looked up at him as he entered.

	"You the router I was just speaking to?"

	The man nodded. "Are you Alex Mayne?"

	"Damned right I am! What's this business about, anyway?"

	The router spread his hands apologetically, then reached into his desk and drew forth a crisp memo slip. Up at the top, the imprint was that of B. J. Connaughty, head of Universal Airlines. Underneath that, a short message was typed in neat green letters.

-
To The Router:
	Please be informed that the blastoff certificate of pilot Alexander Mayne is hereby cancelled, effective immediately. This means that Pilot Mayne is not to make his scheduled run in our ship Lightfoot this evening, nor is he to make any further space journeys. He is to be considered permanently grounded.
B. J. Connaughty,
President
-

	Mayne stared at the note for a moment, then returned it to the router. "Okay," he said hoarsely. "My certificate's been cancelled. I've been yanked from my run." He licked his lips. "Why?"

	"I can't tell you, Mr. Mayne." Note the Mister, Mayne thought. I'm just another planetlubber now. "You'll have to take that matter upstairs. I'm sure they can help you."

	"Upstairs?"

	"Records office. Look up your certificate—there's bound to be a reason for cancellation."

	"You're right. I'll check right now."

	"Good luck, Mr. Mayne."

	"Sure," Mayne said. "Sure. Thanks loads."

	He went upstairs. The records office was on the twenty-ninth level of the giant building, and the night recordskeeper smiled blankly at him as he entered.

	"My name is Mayne," he said. "Pilot first class. My certificate's just been cancelled, and I want to know why the hell why."

	"Very well," the recordskeeper said. "M-A-Y-N-E, is it?"

	"M-A-Y-N-E. Alexander Mayne. A-L-E-X-A—"

	"That's all right, sir." The recordskeeper disappeared into a vast stack of computer tapes, set some sort of machine whirring, and returned a few moments later with a punched card that Mayne recognized as his certificate.

	"Here you are, sir."

	Mayne took the card, which was Stamped CANCELLED in bright red, and scanned it. On the back, it said, under "Reason for Revokement," DISCHARGED ON MEDICAL GROUNDS. Appended to that was a handwritten scribble that said, "Failed quarterly reflex test. No longer fit for space hauling. Recommendation: ground work in the Company. Good service record."

	Mayne stared bleakly at the card, then looked at the records-keeper. "This is baloney," he said quietly.

	"Sir?"

	"I said baloney! I passed my Quarterly by plus ten. Get me my testing records, will you?"

	"Of course, sir."

	Mayne waited impatiently. There was some clerical error involved here, obviously; he had the duplicate of his record home, with his pass-card for the last Quarterly. He had the proof. It only needed to be passed through channels, and he'd be back in space again.

	"Here you are, sir," the records-keeper said. He handed Mayne a thick portfolio which contained his medical reports over the last five years, covering his period in service as a pilot. He riffled through them impatiently, thumbing over the little yellow Quarterly cards that told of his fitness to pilot a ship.

	"July, October, January, April—ah, here we are." He pulled out the July card, the one covering his most recent examination, and held it between nerveless fingers.

	The card was red. Bright red. It was a failing card. And he knew he had passed that exam.

	"Here," he said. "Take the whole batch away."

	"Is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

	Mayne shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter, now." He turned and left, walking out into the corridor, standing there staring at the bright lights that lined the halls, not knowing where to turn next.

	The card said he failed. He hadn't failed.

	He'd lost his certificate. He was through as a space man.

	The answer was obvious. It was a frame—someone wanted to keep him out of space. Someone wanted to keep him away from Venus permanently. Someone knew what Alex Mayne had intended to do as soon as he got back to Venus again.

	He sank down on a bench in the hall. Where do you turn now, when every avenue is blocked?

-

	IT MUST HAVE BEEN on his last run to Venus in the Lightfoot, six weeks before, that he'd seen the peculiarly glassy look in the eyes of the Greenie.

	The small Venusian had been standing alone in the middle of the forest ;staring meditatively at a gort-bush whose rainbow spines were weaving ever closer to it. Mayne had been making the trip from Venusport to New Chicago to pick up his cargo vouchers when he came across him.

	The Greenie was waiting for the gort-bush to grab him, and he wasn't making any attempt to resist. Mayne sprang from his land-car, covered the twenty feet of swampy bog between him and the Greenie in a few quick bounds, and incinerated the gort-bush. Then he turned to the Greenie.

	"What's the matter with you?" he asked, in lingua spacia. "You looking to die young?"

	The Greenie only shook its head blankly from side to side. Mayne reached out, jogged it back and forth in an attempt to awaken it—and saw the glassy way its eyes were fixed, staring forward. It was the goggle-eyed look of the kerith-addict.

	Kerith? On Venus? The Plutonian drug was forbidden by the most stringent laws in the galaxy—and who would sell it to the simple-minded Venusians? Who would be that low? It was like selling the stuff to children.

	"Wake up!" Mayne yelled, slapping the Greenie hard. The Venusian only moaned, and backed away. Shrugging, Mayne slugged the small humanoid and dumped him in the back of his landcar. He proceeded on to New Chicago, and took care of his business there.

	His next stop was going to be the local Medical Office, to have the Greenie checked over, to have the diagnosis of kerith-drugging confirmed. Only—when he returned to the landcar, there was no Greenie there. Just a ripped-off bit of gray material that could be only one thing—a fragment of a Universal Spacelines pilot's uniform.

	And the only pilot currently on Venus besides Mayne was Brian Connaughty. The son of B. J. Connaughty, the President of the Company.

	Mayne could not stop to investigate. His schedule had called for blastoff later that afternoon, and there wasn't any way he could deviate from that.

	So Brian Connaughty was selling kerith to the Greenies, eh? He didn't have any proof, of course, but it certainly looked that way—and Mayne wouldn't put anything past wiry, unscrupulous Brian.

	Mayne had planned to look for proof on his next trip up, six weeks in the future. It was a week-long stay next time, and he'd have ample, time to smoke out this kerith peddler, whether he was Connaughty or anyone else.

	Not now. Not any more. Apparently Connaughty knew that Mayne was aware of what was going on, and it hadn't been too hard for Brian to get access to the records to juggle the medical reports, to get Mayne's certificate rescinded.

	He'd never get back to Venus now. No one would listen to a grounded spaceman, in the first place, and in the second place he couldn't afford the million-credit fee for a private trip to Venus. There was no way he'd be able to stop Connaughty's kerith-racket.

	He would never be able to prove fraud, either—not when he had B. J. and Brian against him. His protest would never get anywhere. He'd never get his certificate back.

	Damn you, Connaughty!

	Right now, Brian was probably on Venus, selling his weed to the unsuspecting Greenies. And Mayne was permanently Earthed. Permanently.

	Mayne got up and began to walk aimlessly down the long corridor toward the elevator. There was no further point sticking around here, he thought. He was washed-up. Through. Kaput.

	Suddenly, the warning signal sounded from the field below. Mayne stiffened automatically, as years of piloting had taught him, and then he relaxed as he realized the signal could not possibly be for him.

	The distant boom of the field speaker came through to him. "Flight 129 for Venus loading cargo now. Pilot Eric Carpenter report to field flight assignment."

	It was the second run of the night, cargo haul and mail, most likely. Mayne could picture the scene in the Pilot's Lounge now, as Carpenter got himself ready for the run, the run that Mayne would never make again.

	Then he stopped, as a thought struck him. Why not, he thought. Why not try it? I've got nothing to lose.

	With sudden urgency, he sprinted down the hall to the elevator.

-

	FLIGHT 129 was the cargo ship Arthur Clarke, and it stood outlined against the night beacons down at the end of the field. Mayne stood in the shadows and watched the leather-jacketed figure of Pilot Eric Carpenter crossing the field, heading for the ship.

	Sorry, Eric, he thought. Skirting the edge of the field, he ran along the shadows toward the Arthur Clarke. Carpenter climbed the catwalk and entered the ship just as Mayne arrived at the blasting area.

	He glanced around. There was just one guard on duty, watching over the loaded cargo until Carpenter took over. Mayne stepped up behind him.

	"Excuse me," he said. "How long is it to blastoff?"

	The guard turned. "Oh, about ten min—"

	Mayne's fist met the guard's jaw squarely. The guard toppled and hit the concrete of the field with a dull thwack. He tried to get up, and Mayne bent and hit him again, sharply. He lay still.

	Then he turned and ran toward the Clarke. He mounted the catwalk and pounded on the airlock.

	"Carpenter! Carpenter! Open up!"

	From inside, he heard the pilot's voice say, "What's the matter? Something wrong?"

	"Yeah! Open up!"

	The hatch swung open and Mayne entered. Carpenter was busily making the routine last minute checks.

	"Mayne! What are you doing here? I heard you—"

	"—were grounded. Strictly baseless rumors. I'm here to replace you on this flight."

	"What? What kind of business is this? I'll have to have confirmation from Central."

	He reached for the radio control, and Mayne jumped. He tackled the pilot and wrenched him away from the control panel. Carpenter squirmed, got an arm free, and drove a fist into Mayne's teeth.

	Mayne wiped blood away. "Listen, Eric, don't make this any harder than it has to be. I want your ship."

	"Get out of here, Mayne."

	Carpenter lashed out, but Mayne spun away and connected with the other's chin. Carpenter sagged, and Mayne hit him again. The pilot's head snapped back and struck a projecting control stud.

	Mayne scooped up the crumpled body and carried it back to the cargo hold, where he strapped it securely in one of the fragile-goods lockers. He had nothing against Carpenter, who was just an innocent bystander, and he didn't want anything to happen to the pilot on the way out.

	Moving quickly, he recomputed the orbit to include the extra mass of a second man, and signalled Central.

	"Eric Carpenter," he said, imitating the other's voice as well as possible. "Request blastoff clearance."

	"The go-ahead's forthcoming, Carpenter."

	"Good. I'll be waiting."

	The signal beacon lit a few seconds later. Mayne got verbal confirmation and pounded down on the blastoff keys. A moment later, the Arthur Clarke rose from the field, destination Venus.

-

	IT WAS A NINE-HOUR trip.

	Carpenter came to about halfway out, and Mayne cut in the automatic pilot and headed aft to see how the pilot was.

	Quickly, he explained to Carpenter just why he had stolen the ship, leaving out any positive identification of the dope-pushers he suspected.

	"You'll never get away with it," Carpenter said. "The Company'll smear you for hijacking the ship."

	"I didn't hijack it, though," Mayne said. "As far as they know, you took it out. And I'm going to turn command over to you again once we put down on Venus. You can take care of the cargo handling. I'm going to do a little scouting work."

	"I think you're crazy," Carpenter said, rubbing his bruised head. "But I'll keep my mouth shut, anyway. Tell me, though—why are you so hopped up about keeping the Greenies pure and healthy?"

	"I don't give a damn about the Greenies," Mayne said. "Not particularly—though I can't say I care much for the idea of selling them kerith. But I've got a personal stake in this thing. If I can uncover the peddlers, I can get back my certificate. "

	That was all there was to it. If he could unmask Connaughty, he'd smash Universal and entitle himself to a formal protest of the rescinding order. If not—well, then he was no worse off than before.

	He returned to the controls, and watched the cloud-blanketed surface of Venus growing larger and larger in the viewplate.

	They landed four hours later, and Mayne, true to his word, turned the controls over to Carpenter. "Just forget I ever came aboard," he said. "It'll look better for both of us. When are you blasting off for Earth?"

	"I'll be here a week."

	"Good," Mayne said. "Don't leave without me, huh?"

	"I'm not making any promises," said Carpenter.

	Mayne nodded—it was the best he expected—and turned away. He left the spaceport and beaded out into the hot, lush Venusian afternoon. The air was warm and moist with the ever-present rain-that-never-fell, and the thick vegetation was a riot of color before his eyes.

	If he returned empty-handed, the Company had him. One word from Connaughty and he didn't stand a chance of having his case reviewed.

	But if he could come back with evidence that Connaughty, father and son, were busily peddling kerith lo the Greenies—then, and only then, did Mayne stand a chance of getting cleared of the frame-up and returning to space.

	He plunged off into the jungle, not knowing where to begin but knowing he had to make a beginning. He passed a thicket of waving dornik-trees, undulating with a sinister motion, and pushed his way through the closely-massed vines and bunched, low-lying shrubs.

	The glow of the sun behind the cloud layer grew brighter as he headed deeper into the jungle. It was well past noon before he stumbled over the Greenie village.

	An elderly Greenie who might have been the chieftain came out to greet him.

	"Are you from the trading post?"

	"No," Mayne said. "I'm searching for another Earthman. Thin, with red hair and ugly face. Do you know him?"

	"He is the one who sells dreams?" the Greenie asked.

	"Yes! That's the one!"

	"To the West," the old Venusian said. "He has passed through here, and has gone west."

	"Thank you, father," Mayne said. He peered closely and saw now that the old native had the glazed expression of the confirmed kerith-addict. Connaughty had been through here, all right.

	Mayne cut a walking-stick from one of the few trees that didn't seem to be carnivorous, and headed onward toward the west. There was another village some eleven miles from where he was; it was a miserable trek, but he knew he had to make it.

	It took hours. Mayne was ready to drop by the time he saw signs of the village. He found it, at last—and he found Brian Connaughty.

	The Earthman was sitting in the square in the center of the village, and several of the Greenies were grouped around him, strumming on the taut-skinned native drums. Mayne walked right up to them.

	"Hello, Brian."

	"Mayne! How did you—I mean, good to see you, fellow! Just arrive?"

	"The Lightfoot pulled in a couple of hours before," Mayne said truthfully. "You collecting folkways out here in the tribal area?"

	"I'm—I'm doing this as a sort of hobby," Connaughty said. "You spend enough time on Venus and you want to know something about the people. Damned interesting people, these Greenies."

	"I'm sure they are," Mayne said tightly. "That must be why you're so happy to sell them kerith."

	Connaughty's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that, Mayne? That's a pretty strong accusation."

	"And I can back it up," Mayne lied. "I've got proof—conclusive proof. I can put down documentary evidence that says you've been doping the Greenies."

	Connaughty's pale eyes blazed. "That's a lie!"

	"That's another," Mayne said evenly. "Where's your kerith-cache?"

	Connaughty didn't answer. Instead, he sprang from the ground, leaped straight at Mayne's throat. Mayne rocked for a moment under the sudden assault, then yanked Connaughty's hand from his throat and stepped back. The Greenies arrayed themselves around the struggling pair interestedly.

	Connaughty's fists tattooed . Mayne's stomach. The kerith-peddler was a smaller man than Mayne, but more agile, and Mayne was hard put to fend off Connaughty's attack.

	He pushed away, breaking the clinch, and aimed an open-handed slap that split Connaughty's lip. Then he strode in, ignoring Connaughty's shower of light body-blows, and drove two heavy punches into the other's midsection. Connaughty grunted and gave ground,

	Mayne reached out, pinioned his arms, and lifted Connaughty from the ground.

	"What do you want from me?" Connaughty asked.

	Mayne only chuckled. "I want to see you rot in jail," he said.

	"You'll never get anything from me," Connaughty said. "I don't care how hard you beat me up."

	"I'm not going to beat you up." Mayne glanced around, saw what he wanted, bent, and heaved the scrambling body of Connaughty up—into the welcoming grasp of a chlora-tree.

	"Mayne! This is murder!"

	"I know," Mayne said calmly.

	"Get me out and I'll confess everything!" Connaughty pleaded. The acid of the tree's suckers was starting to burn into him now.

	"What do you mean, 'everything'?" Mayne asked with calm curiosity. "Be more specific."

	Connaughty's face contorted with pain. "That my father and I were smuggling dope in on the cargo ships. That we framed you to keep you from coming back here and finding out what we were doing. That we—God! Get me out of this! You can't just let me die in this tree, Mayne!"

	He watched as Connaughty writhed. The chlora-tree had wrung from Connaughty what no beating ever would—a full confession. Mayne smiled happily and drew his blaster.

	"Keep your eyes shut," he ordered. "I'm going to cook this tree before it eats you alive. I want there to be some of you left to stand trial when we get back to Earth!"

The End