[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories, August 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There was something in the way that little Venusian fire dancer lookedat me when I passed her on my way down the ramp to the rocket racks toget Suvia Jalmin's shiny Space Midget that started me thinking.
This jet burn I picked up the time I pinwheeled into the force fence onthe big Zeta socket track on Mars hadn't exactly left me looking like aglamor flash from the telecolor screens. Only up until now I had neverlet that worry me because the way I figure it you don't race rocketswith your face anyhow.
The way I figure it, it's nerve not profile that slams the big sizzlesticks around the magnet bends.
Still, when I caught the look in that little space dame's eyes—asthough I'm some kind of slime mutant fresh out of a spore bog—I gotto wondering. I remembered a dozen other girls I had met suddenly in adozen other dark corners.
I remembered why from one end of the Great Galaxy Circuit to the otherI'm billed as "Death" Benton, and it's not because of the chances Itake. And I remembered, finally, that in the last two years I've beenmaking about as much headway with Suvia Jalmin as a hay-burning burroon a star lane.
All the rest of the way down to the racks I thought it over, and italways came out the same. I could see that what I needed was a quicktrip down to that new Venusian super-clinic in the InterplanetarySettlement for a complete remodeling job. By the time I got back up tothe starting platform with the Space Midget I had a plan for gettingthat remodeling job done, all worked out, neat and pretty, in my skull.
Suvia was waiting in front of the grandstand when I rolled her rocketoff the pneumatic lift. The kid does a stunt act in between races thatis considered tops in the Galaxy circuit. The Samson arcs, focusingon her, hit her curly, spun-honey hair, setting up a glow that put agleaming nimbus around her crash helmet.
Suvia is one quarter Martian, a combination that makes her twice asgorgeous as anything else in curves on either Mars or Earth. Up in thestands the crowd was giving the usual big hand of appreciation at herappearance. Even the track robots were maybe doing a bit of applauding,too.
In her translucent sennilite suit with the airplast gliding wingsfolded at her sides, Suvia made a picture most men would joyfully havemissed a parade of comets to see.
A hundred times I've told myself it's sheer blasphemy for such aluscious bit of femininity to be risking her neck like this, dayafter day. Yet tough stunting is in the kid's blood. Ever since hergrandfather rode the first space ship to Mars there has been a Jalminsomewhere, risking life and limb just for the devil of it.
When she picked up the sound of her rocket on the platform, she turnedwhat was left of her audience smile my way. For a moment I almostforgot the crash scars. Only not quite.
"Right on the dot, Pete," she said. "Nice crowd up there, isn't it?"
I boosted her up into the cockpit, making the usual little show ofadjusting this and that to help build up suspense.
"Yes, it's a nice crowd," I said. "And every mother's one of them wouldbe thrilled to pieces if something nice and fatal happened to you, sobe careful. You going to watch the finals?"
Suvia had her hand on the cowl plate lever, ready to close the topplate, but she hesitated, bearing down on me with both eyes.
"I always watch the finals," she cried. "You know that, Pete Benton.Why? Are you up to some crazy sch