molds."
Ham, like all Venusian traders, was of necessity bold, resourceful, and what is called in the States "hard-boiled." He didn't flinch, but said in apparent yielding:
"All right; but listen, all I want is a chance to eat."
"Wait for a rain," said the other coolly and half turned to unlock the door.
As his eyes shifted, Ham kicked at the revolver; it went spinning against the wall and dropped into the weeds. His opponent snatched for the flame-pistol that still dangled on his hip; Ham caught his wrist in a mighty clutch.
Instantly the other ceased to struggle, while Ham felt a momentary surprise at the skinny feel of the wrist through its transkin covering.
"Look here!" he growled. "I want a chance to eat, and I'm going to get it. Unlock that door!"
He had both wrists now; the fellow seemed curiously delicate. After a moment he nodded, and Ham released one hand. The door opened, and he followed the other in.
Again, unheard-of magnificence. Solid chairs, a sturdy table, even books, carefully preserved, no doubt, by lycopodium against the ravenous molds that sometimes entered Hotland shacks in spite of screen filters and automatic spray. An automatic spray was going now to destroy any spores that might have entered with the opening door.
Ham sat down, keeping an eye on the other, whose flame-pistol he had permitted to remain in its holster. He was confident of his ability to outdraw the slim individual, and, besides, who'd risk firing a flame-pistol indoors? It would simply blow out one wall of the building.
So he set about opening his mask, removing food from his pack, wiping his steaming face, while his companion—or opponent—looked on silently. Ham watched the canned meat for a moment; no molds appeared, and he ate.
"Why the devil," he rasped, "don't you open your visor?" At the other's silence, he continued: "Afraid I'll see your face, eh? Well, I'm not interested; I'm no cop."
No reply.
He tried again. "What's your name?"
The cool voice sounded: "Burlingame. Pat Burlingame."
Ham laughed. "Patrick Burlingame is dead, my friend. I knew him." No answer. "And if you don't want to tell your name, at least you needn't insult the memory of a brave man and a great explorer."
"Thank you." The voice was sardonic. "He was my father."
"Another lie. He had no son. He had only a——" Ham paused abruptly; a feeling of consternation swept over him. "Open your visor!" he yelled.
He saw the lips of the other, dim through the transkin, twitch into a sarcastic smile.
"Why not?" said the soft voice, and the mask dropped.
Ham gulped; behind the covering were the delicately modeled features of a girl, with cool gray eyes in a face lovely despite the glistening perspiration on cheeks and forehead.
The man gulped again. After all, he was a gentleman despite his profession as one of the fierce, adventurous traders of Venus. He was university-educated—an engineer—and only the lure of quick wealth had brought him to the Hotlands.
"I—I'm sorry," he stammered.
"You brave American poachers!" she sneered. "Are all of you so valiant as to force yourselves on women?"
"But—how could I know? What are you doing in a place like this?"
"There's no reason for me to answer your questions, but"—she gestured toward the room beyond—"I'm classifying Hotland flora and fauna. I'm Patricia Burlingame, biologist."
He perceived now the jar-inclosed specimens of a laboratory in the next chamber. "But a girl alone in the Hotlands! It's—it's reckless!"
"I didn't expect to meet any American poachers," she retorted.
He flushed. "You needn't worry about me. I'm going." He raised his hands to his visor.
Instantly Patricia snatched an automatic from the table drawer. "You're going, indeed, Mr. Hamilton Hammond," she said coolly. "But you're leaving your xixtchil with me. It's crown property; you've stolen it from British territory, and I'm confiscating it."
He stared. "Look here!" he blazed suddenly. "I've risked all I have for that xixtchil. If I lose it I'm ruined—busted. I'm not giving it up!"
"But you are."
He dropped his mask and sat down. "Miss Burlingame," he said, "I don't think you've nerve enough to shoot me, but that's what you'll have to do to get it. Otherwise I'll sit here until you drop of exhaustion."
Her gray eyes bored silently into his blue ones. The gun held steadily on his heart, but spat no bullet. It was a deadlock.
At last the girl said, "You win, poacher." She slapped the gun into her empty holster. "Get out, then."
"Gladly!" he snapped.
He rose, fingered his visor, then dropped it again at a sudden startled scream from the girl. He whirled, suspecting a trick, but she was staring out of the window with wide, apprehensive eyes.
Ham saw the writhing of vegetation and then a vast whitish mass. A doughpot—a monstrous one, bearing steadily toward their shelter. He heard the gentle clunk of impact, and then the window was blotted out by the pasty mess, as the creature, not quite large enough to engulf the building, split into two masses that flowed around and remerged on the other side.
Another cry from Patricia. "Your mask, fool!" she rasped. "Close it!"
"Mask? Why?" Nevertheless, he obeyed automatically.
"Why? That's why! The digestive acids—look!"
She pointed at the walls; indeed, thousands of tiny pinholes of light were appearing. The digestive acids of the monstrosity, powerful enough to attack whatever food chance brought, had corroded the metal; it was porous; the shack was ruined. He gasped as fuzzy molds shot instantly from the remains of his meal, and a red-and-green fur sprouted from the wood of chairs and table.
The two faced each other.
Ham chuckled. "Well," he said, "you're homeless, too. Mine went down in a mudspout."
"Yours would!" Patricia retorted acidly. "You Yankees couldn't think of finding shallow soil, I suppose. Bed rock is just six feet below here, and my place is on pilons."
"Well, you're a cool devil! Anyway, your place might as well be sunk. What are you going to do?"
"Do? Don't concern yourself. I'm quite able to manage."
"How?"
"It's no affair of yours, but I have a rocket call each month."
"You must be a millionaire, then," he commented.
"The Royal Society," she said coldly, "is financing this expedition. The rocket is due——"
She paused; Ham thought she paled a little behind her mask.
"Due when?"
"Why—it just came two days ago. I'd forgotten."
"I see. And you think you'll just stick around for a month waiting for it. Is that it?"
Patricia stared at him defiantly.
"Do you know," he resumed, "what you'd be in a month? It's ten days to summer and look at your shack." He gestured at the walls, where brown and rusty patches were forming; at his motion a piece the size of a saucer tumbled in with a crackle. "In two days this thing will be a caved-in ruin. What'll you do during fifteen days of summer? What'll you do without shelter when the temperature reaches a hundred and fifty—a hundred and sixty? I'll tell you—you'll die."
She said nothing.
"You'll be a fuzzy mass of molds before the rocket returns," Ham said. "And then a pile of clean bones that will go down with the first mudspout."
"Be still!" she blazed.