ALCATRAZ OF THE STARWAYS
By ALBERT dePINA and HENRY HASSE
Venus was a world enslaved. And then, like
an avenging angel, fanning the flames of
raging revolt, came a warrior-princess in
whose mind lay dread knowledge—the knowledge
of a weapon so terrible it had been used
but once in the history of the universe.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Purple!" Mark Denning almost sobbed. "A purple Josmian!" Forgettingthe sweat in his eyes and the insufferable heat about him, hisclutching hand held up the mud-dripping globe the size of a baseball,iridescent in the Venusian night.
The phosphorescent glow that bathed the endless swamp in ghastlygreen, struck myriad shimmering rainbows from the dark sphere.
"Two more of those and you're free, lower species!" It was an ironicvoice, with the resonant sweetness of a cello in its depths, thatissued from the haze nearby.
Frantically Mark reached down into the tepid mud, where he had felt theswaying stems of Josmian lilies whip about his knees. Another globe methis hand. He tugged and twisted until it tore from the stem, but whenhe raised it to the surface, it was white.
Immediately it began to shrink. It would continue until it became thesize of a small marble, when it would either rot, as the majority did,or begin to crystallize into a priceless Venusian pearl. But thathappened only with one in ten thousand. It was different with thepurple ones, they never failed to crystallize into a violet globe ofunearthly beauty and incalculable value. Less than a hundred of thepurple had ever been found. They were so rare that any prisoner whoharvested three, was granted freedom.
"Pretty!" the cello voice taunted, behind Mark. "In a few hours it willbe rotting and stinking to high heaven!"
"Cut it, Aladdo!" Mark growled. He tossed the white Josmian intothe basket he pushed before him across the mud; the purple one heplaced carefully in his trouser pocket. He pushed on, searching thepungent-smelling mud that came up to his thighs.
Suddenly the warm ooze rose to his waist and crept inexorably higher.For an instant, Mark clawed at the mud. It was surging up to hisarmpits now, as he floundered in the tenacious sink hole. He shook hishead to get the sweat out of his eyes and the numbness from his brain.He stopped thrashing about, for he knew that was futile. He threw backhis head and gave a shout in which was more than a note of sheer terror.
Mark clawed at the mud surging up to his armpits.
At least a dozen men were moving near him, waist deep in the Venusianmud. At his cry, they stopped and stared at him dully, fatalistically.They could easily have formed a chain and pulled him out, but nonemoved. They'd seen too many repetitions of this tragedy to careanymore. It happened every day; a new man, a little careless, caught inone of the deadly sink holes ... it happened even to the veterans ofthis Venusian prison camp, sometimes deliberately, as they became wearyof a hopeless existence.
The mud was almost to Mark's chin now; only his forearms and his blondhead were visible. Hatre