The Venus Venture

by John E. Muller, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Man has already entered space and lived to tell the tale. Science Fiction is on the verge of being overtaken by science fact. Tomorrow is here . . . today. The space age is no longer the dream of the writer or the hope of the scientist. It has already dawned.

Man is galloping towards the stars. The roaring hoofs of the rockets are beating out the trail to Infinity. There will be no turning back. Boundless possibilities stretch out before us. Endless opportunities beckon us. Will we use them for good or ill?

Space holds a million unknown factors. We are like children plunging into a vast ocean and striking out bravely for an unseen shore, the shore of the unexplored land. As we swim into the future we tell ourselves stories about the wonders that lie ahead of us. This is one of those stories.

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Writing as Bron Fane

Blue Juggernaut

Last Man on Earth

Nemesis

Rodent Mutation

Softly by Moonlight

Somewhere Out There

Suspension

The Intruders

The Macabre Ones

U.F.O. 517

Unknown Destiny

Writing as John E. Muller

A 1000 Years On

Beyond the Void

Beyond Time

Crimson Planet

Dark Continuum

Forbidden Planet

Infinity Machine

Mark of the Beast

Micro Infinity

Orbit One

Out of the Night

Perilous Galaxy

Phenomena X

Reactor XK9

Special Mission

Spectre of Darkness

Survival Project

The Day the World Died

The Exorcists

The Eye of Karnak

The Man From Beyond

The Man Who Conquered Time

The Mind Makers

The Negative Ones

The Return of Zeus

The Ultimate Man

The Uninvited

The Venus Venture

The X-Machine

Uranium 235

Vengeance of Siva

Writing as Karl Zeigfried

Android

Atomic Nemesis

Barrier 346

Escape to Infinity

Gods of Darkness

No Way Back

Projection Infinity

Radar Alert

The Girl from Tomorrow

The World That Never Was

Walk Through Tomorrow

World of the Future

World of Tomorrow

Zero Minus X

Writing as L. P. Kenton

Destination Moon

Writing as Lee Barton

The Planet Seekers

The Shadow Man

The Unseen

Writing as Leo Brett

Black Infinity

Exit Humanity

Face in the Night

From Realms Beyond

March of the Robots

Mind Force

Nightmare

Power Sphere

The Alien Ones

The Faceless Planet

The Forbidden

The Immortals

The Microscopic Ones

They Never Come Back

Writing as Lionel Roberts

Cyclops in the Sky

Dawn of the Mutants

Flame Goddess

The Face of X

The In-World

The Last Valkyrie

The Synthetic Ones

Time Echo

Writing as Neil Thanet

Beyond the Veil

The Man Who Came Back

Writing as Pel Torro

Beyond the Barrier of Space (AKA Formula 29X)

Exiled in Space

Force 97X

Frozen Planet

Galaxy 666

Legion of the Lost

Man of Metal

Space No Barrier

The Face of Fear

The Last Astronaut

The Phantom Ones

The Return

The Strange Ones

The Timeless Ones

Through The Barrier

World of the Gods

Writing as R. L. Fanthorpe

Alien from the Stars

Asteroid Man

Doomed World

Fiends

Flame Mass

Hand of Doom

Hyperspace

Negative Minus

Neuron World

Out of the Darkness

Satellite

Space Fury

Space-Borne

The Golden Chalice

The Triple Man

The Unconfined

The Waiting World

The Watching World

Writing as Thornton Bell

Space Trap

Writing as Trebor Thorpe

Five Faces of Fear

Lightning World

Writing as Victor La Salle

Menace from Mercury

Night Call

LANCE FERGUSON opened the door of his project flat with a well-worn Yale key and switched on the light. He touched the bakelite with a movement that was completely instinctive. He had opened the door and switched on the light in just that way for more years than he cared to think about, for Lance Ferguson had been on the project a long time. In his middle thirties; greying at the temples; his keen eyes looked out on the world from behind their rather common-place “tortoiseshell” frames—for there was nothing of the exhibitionist or extravert about Lance Ferguson. He was a chemist of some renown who specialised almost exclusively in the production and control of highly volatile rocket fuels.

It was his one problem, his great life’s work. It had been his speciality since he left the university way back in 1946. The years between then and the present he had spent entirely on the project, working his way up from junior research assistant to senior research assistant and from thence to Chemist in Charge of Rocket Fuel development.

The project had become his home. His family had been killed in the war. The project had become his family, his home, everything. He was married to science, and he was quite happy with his lot. His recreation was classical music and he began moving slowly across his flat, almost instinctively towards the elaborate record player with its superb reproduction. He always put a record on—a Brahms or a Beethoven—before ringing the service bell which would bring his housekeeper along to prepare tea. Or, on the nights when he was working late, the evening meal. But before he could reach the record player something happened which broke that pleasant academic colony routine.

A figure in a rather dark, nondescript suit, with a mask over its head, a complete hood, stepped out from behind an alcove, holding a snub-nosed automatic. The automatic was trained unwaveringly about six inches away from Lance Ferguson’s stomach …

The chemist said nothing for a moment. This was impossible, he told himself as soon as his shocked, dazed mind began to react again. This is completely and utterly impossible. This is incredible. This cannot happen to me!

The voice behind the hood was guttural and muffled.

“Open zer zafe! Qvick!”

Ferguson was beginning to regain his self-control. The safe contained the formula for the new fuel. He wasn’t handing that over without a fight. He made a grab for the gun, expecting as he did so that there would be a violent report and that his world would end in a sea of flame and agony. But there was no report. Instead the gunman’s left hand came up in a judo chopping blow that caught Ferguson just below the right ear. He felt the strength leaving his legs. He sank to his knees, then the gun was trained on him again.

“Von more stupid trick und you die,” said that same savage, guttural voice.

Ferguson rubbed his ear painfully. That was a skilful blow that had been struck. It wasn’t a wild swing. It was a judo blow, without any doubt at all.

He staggered across towards the safe helplessly. The key was in his pocket … maybe it was a bad security arrangement, maybe a dozen things—but how could anybody have got into the project? The main line of defence was the outside wall with its electrified wire, its barbed wire, its guard dogs, its guards.

Nobody should be able to get into the project—just nobody! Let alone this rather Comic Opera German spy which was what he seemed like at the moment, with his black hood and his guttural nondescript accent. He was like a character out of a Bairnsfather cartoon, saying ‘Veech vay to zee power station?’ and being hotly pursued by ‘Old Bill’ waving a shovel and dressed in Home Guard uniform, saying ‘I’ll ruddy well show yer!’

But there was nothing comical about the situation, for all its comic opera setting with the mask, and the accent and the deadly snub-nosed automatic, and the assailant who was obviously a past master at not only defence but attack. There was about it a stark air of reality.

Not until this sudden interruption of his routine had the little research chemist realised how sheltered a life he had led. He was a scientific hermit. The project was more like a monastery than the real outside world. This, he decided had done him some good, as well as harm—assuming that his intruder allowed him to live to benefit by his experience! It had jerked him out of a smug, dull apathy. He was in a rut. Heavens, what a rut! Nearly seventeen years! Perhaps longer, he had lost track of time. The university and then this, and this had become his life, playing with volatile fuels! It sounded exciting and romantic to a great mass of the reading public on the outside world, but to a man who was actually doing it, routine, and monotony, and slide rule. Slide rules and papers, and that was all! An occasional experiment. An occasional explosion. An occasional success … a frequent failure. Just routine. He might as well have been a bank clerk or a solicitor. There was no more to it than that. He had led such a sheltered life. No domestic worries, no financial worries. The project saw to everything. He was looked after like a chick in a gigantic incubator. The project paid him his wages. The project provided him with servants, the project fed him, the project almost clothed him. He was surprised, now he came to think of it, that the project did not supply an attendant to scrub his back when he was in the bath! He smiled inwardly, despite the grimness of the situation. The shadow of that smile played out on to his lips.

“Vy do you laugh? Get zat zafe opened! At once!” If he opened the safe it might perhaps save him from being coshed or shot, and after all, if he was still alive he could repeat the formula. But then, did it matter much if he was dead? There were other men on the project who could repeat the formula. He wondered if there were any other way? Yes, perhaps if he could swallow the key … Then dead or alive it would not make any difference. The assailant would not have time to disembowel him and remove it. It was rather a large key. He wondered if he could get it up to his mouth quickly enough … He could try at any rate. He shrugged his shoulders with what he hoped was a look of resigned apathy.

“All right, you win,” he said, and put his hand in his pocket and produced a bunch of keys. Bunch! That had ruined it. How could he get the key off without looking suspicious? Perhaps if he attempted to take it off the ring to hand it across? But that would look odd.

“Vich key?” demanded the assailant.

“I’ll take it off for you,” he said.

“Do not—bother!” The gunman snatched the ring from him, and his one hope of defeating his attacker faded. The gunman glanced at the safe nestling snugly in the wall, then at the keys. It was only the work of an instant for him to select the one which he required. There was a click as the lock sprang back and the tumblers fell out of position. Then the safe was open. The intruder scooped its entire contents into a small leather bag that he carried.

“Zer goot, zer goot,” he said in that same deep, guttural, phoney accent. “Dankes zer, mein Herr.” It sounded German, but was it? wondered the chemist. The gun prodded into his ribs again.

“Zis vay, qvickly!” He was thrust into his own bathroom and a chair was wedged under the handle—he could hear it scraping.

“Blast!” he muttered. The bathroom had only one tiny ventilator. He was there until he was missed, unless he could shake the chair loose, and that seemed unlikely. There was nothing in the bathroom that he could use as a weapon, as a bludgeon against the door. He heard the intruder slamming the door of the flat behind him. Perhaps—yes, the bathroom light! That would shine through the ventilator. He took the pull switch in his hand and began sending an SOS.

It was half an hour before it was noticed, then a security officer broke in the door of the flat and moved the chair from the bathroom, noticing the empty safe as he did so.

After that hell broke loose. Questions by the thousand from the security police. How had the man got in? Apparently he hadn’t. The circuit was unbroken. The electric fence was in position, the guard dogs were on patrol. The main gate had not been opened.

That seemed to be that as far as the Security Chief was concerned. There was a look of mental agony on his face as he came to a decision. He turned to the chemist and his great hands were clenched together.

“There’s only one conclusion I can draw, Mr. Ferguson,” he said. “It was an inside job. Whoever held you up, robbed you, and locked you in your bathroom is a member of the project, and he’s so. . .