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Title: The yes men of Venus
Author: Ron Goulart
Illustrator: Leo Summers
Release date: December 3, 2023 [eBook #72305]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1963
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YES MEN OF VENUS ***
The Yes Men of Venus
By RON GOULART
Illustrated by SUMMERS
_Privileged we are to bring you this historic
story--one which will warm the manly hearts
of the legion of devoted admirers of that
venerable fantasist, Arthur Wright Beemis._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories July 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
INTRODUCTORY NOTE: Let me begin by expressing my thanks to the
executors of the Arthur Wright Beemis Estate for choosing me to
complete his unfinished stories, of which this is to be the first.
Like so many others I have long been an admirer of the books of the
venerable fantasist. Nothing has ever given me the thrill that reading
his first novel, _Roo-So Of The Jungle_, in installments of varying
length in the old _Thursby's All-Star Electrical Fiction Weekly_ did.
Unless it was reading the twenty-three sequels, especially _Roo-So's
Revenge_ and _Roo-So, Friend Of Animals_.
This present story belongs with Beemis' planet adventure yarns. It was
in the winter months of 1929 that Arthur Wright Beemis penned the first
of his many scientifiction novels. In an era when space travel was
little known or speculated on Beemis had his likeable two-fisted hero,
Hyacinth Robinson, travel between planets with ease. Hyacinth Robinson,
as you may remember, had been standing too near a reservoir in upstate
New York and when the water evaporated he went with it, eventually
drifting to Venus where most of _Vandals Of Venus_ takes place. This
story was an instant hit and was soon followed by _Vagrants of Venus_,
_Mermen Of Mars_, _Misfits Of The Moon_, _Plundered On Pluto_ and many
more.
Now that many of Beemis' books are freely available it was felt by his
estate that his unfinished work should also be given to the public. So
here is the new Beemis we have all been waiting for.
Chapter 1: A Minor Cataclysm
My heart was heavy as I drifted over the remote reaches of the Pacific
Ocean in the atomic powered Zeppelin the World League of Peaceful
Governments had thoughtfully allowed me to borrow in order to show
their gratitude for my having ended the 4th World War several weeks
ahead of time with my lucky discovery of a powerful ray that made gun
powder ineffectual. This balloon cruise, as pleasant as it was, had
been planned as more than just a dedicated scientific attempt to map
the migratory routes of the Arctic Curlew. It was to have been, too, my
wedding journey.
As I followed, with my binoculars, the happily paired curlews flapping
to warmer climes I tried to think of some reason for the unpleasant
turn events had taken. When I had called for my beloved Joanna on the
prior morning her father, the noted munitions tycoon, John Plunderbund
Brimstone, had left, not his best wishes for a safe honeymoon but,
rather, orders for myself and my Zeppelin to be thrown unceremoniously
from the grounds. All my leaden heart could be sure of was that I would
never again walk hand in hand with the handsomest, most athletic and
yet feminine, girl in the state of New Jersey. The thought of what
I was doing would have brought tears to my eyes had I not been as
masculine and manly as I am. For the curlew was the one bird that my
Joanna and I had always thought of as _our_ bird.
But the rapid deflation of my Zeppelin vanquished all self pity from my
mind. I was galvanized into action. Placing my binoculars back in their
case, I dived without further thought from the gondola of the falling
Zeppelin and into the placid waters of the Pacific Ocean. Perhaps some
well placed parting shot from one of the minions of Joanna's father had
done its slow work and been the cause of the untimely cessation of my
means of transportation.
I am an excellent swimmer and so there was no dread on my part of the
long swim ahead. However, I had barely covered a mile when I became
aware that something was tugging rather forebodingly at my ankle. My
impression was that I had caught my foot in the compelling maw of some
great clam. Before I could reflect more the creature had pulled at me
so forcefully that my head, the hair of which I wore in a somewhat long
though manly fashion, was yanked below the breath stopping waters of
the ocean in which I had so recently found myself. I fought bravely,
being an excellent boxer. An old ring axiom has it that a good big
man can beat a good little man. However, most rules of honest boxing
were not made with giant clams in mind. For one thing, I could not be
sure if I was fouling the creature or not. As I struggled I became more
and more lightheaded and giddy. As I drove an excellent jab home to
what I hoped was a vital spot of the clam I suddenly lost consciousness.
Chapter 2: The Mysterious Host
I came to in a clean white bed with a large handsome man looking down
at me. He was a striking fellow. To give you some idea I will simply
say that this man, whose name I soon learned was Lowell Hawthorne, was
even better developed and more manfully handsome than myself.
"You've had a bit of a close shave, old man," he said, gripping my
shoulder in a perfectly manly way.
"American, aren't you?"
"Right you are, old man," he said. "Mabu, my native boy and Numba, his
native boy, fished you out of the briny. Scared the simple fellows a
bit at first. They're not used to finding chaps such as yourself inside
giant clams. I had some talking to do to convince them you weren't a
large pearl or some such thing."
"I believe it is oysters rather than clams that are best known for
their pearls," I said, good naturedly, for I took to this handsome,
though mysterious, American almost at once.
"Who can tell a native anything?" was his honest reply.
"I suppose I am to be laid up here for a time," I said.
"A few days," said Hawthorne, drawing a bamboo chair near to my side.
"If you don't object I'd like to tell you a few of my adventures. For,
if I do say so myself, my life has been both curious and strange."
"By all means," I encouraged, being anxious to learn more of this
enigmatic man who apparently lived contentedly here among savages and
giant clams.
"I can tell by your look," he began, "that you are a man of science and
that you may at first be a bit skeptical. Let me begin by saying that
for the past five years I have been in close radio contact with a man
living inside the planet Venus."
"Inside?" I asked. "Come, Hawthorne. Science is well aware that people
live on the outside of that damp junglous planet. But inside?"
"Put aside all your scientific learning for a moment," my new friend
replied. "If you do you may learn something. At least you will have
whiled away your convalescence."
So he began the odd and compelling narrative that you will read in the
next chapter.
Chapter 3: Down And Out On Mars
I am the reincarnation, began Hawthorne, of an Egyptian priest, whose
name if I were to mention it you would recognize as being as familiar
to you as your own. Having lived several lives I reached this one with
more than the usual sense of ennui. I tried many things: shopkeeping,
the cavalry, gold prospecting, writing for the magazines. None of
these helped, nor could love. For in ancient Egypt I had loved a
handsome and sporting priestess named Isis. After her all other women
were anticlimactic. As Fate would have it, she whom I sincerely and
respectfully loved, never seemed to get reincarnated during the same
era as myself. You know how women are about keeping appointments.
One evening toward the end of 1970 I was strolling through Central
Park long after the hour when most men thought it safe. To a man such
as myself, a man who fought the Red Indians without a qualm, the worst
terrors of Central Park after dark held no dread. Still I was taken
aback when seven youths fell upon me with baseball bats. You have
perhaps found, as I did that night, that even a superb physical being
is no match for seven men with little respect for the correct way of
life, and large clubs. Though I maimed and injured a good number of
them I was nevertheless knocked unconscious.
When I awoke and took a step I bounced twelve feet into the air.
Some reappraisal of my surroundings seemed in order. Central Park had
surely changed considerably. It was now a great red desert. I took
another step and bounced again. Then the awesome truth came home to me.
I was no longer in Central Park. I was on Mars.
I am aware that you scientifically inclined chaps talk of space travel
as being a remote possibility. You will realize, of course, that in
1970 no such thing was even at the experimental stage. Therefore I knew
I had been transported to the Red Planet by some mystical means there
is no way to explain.
I was still engrossed in seeing how high I could bounce when three
large green men rode toward me mounted on gigantic hairy horses that
boasted two extra sets of legs. The green men themselves were twenty
feet high and turned out to have, now that I noticed, an extra set of
green arms. This is not the sort of sight someone who has only recently
been battered with wooden clubs wishes to see on awakening.
But appearances are not always the best indication of the man and I
soon found my green welcomers to be quite decent. By means of a method
too complex to burden you with we soon taught each other our respective
languages.
The green men were named Yarl Zun, Zin Yerg and Yex Zurb. I explained
to them that I had apparently transmigrated to Mars by some strange
means.
"You picked a bad time to transmigrate," said Yarl Zun, shaking his
great green head.
"Why is that?"
The three of them proceeded to explain to me as we shared a breakfast
of kex, which is rather like our cold oatmeal, that Mars was in
the midst of a great depression. It seems that the head of their
government, the Daktor, who is roughly equivalent to two of our
presidents, had been wooed into the camp of the more radical element
in the Martian society and instead of listening to his Yax-Daktros, or
well-wishers as we would call them, and building up comforting supplies
of zugbeams, or what we would call deathrays, he had foolishly poured
the taxpayers' money into Yerb, which is something like our social
security. The result was rampant radicalism and poverty with little or
no respect for Goomba, roughly equal to our patriotism.
The upshot of this enlightening political indoctrination was that I
would have a tough time making my way on Mars at the moment. Zin Yerg
and the rest helpfully offered to bat me over the head with Zoobs,
roughly equivalent to our baseball bats, in the hope that I might then
transmigrate back to Earth. I, though, having been an optimist in nine
out of ten of my previous reincarnations, decided to brazen it out.
Stick I would and albeit I was down and out at the moment I felt I
would not be for long.
Such was indeed the case, as I will next relate.
Chapter 4: The Great Games Of Maroom
I threw in my lot with the green men who were, it evolved, enroute to
Maroom, the capital of this country, to enroll in the Great Games. It
is difficult for me to find a parallel on our own planet for these
Great Games. What transpired at them, as I was to learn only too well
and shortly, was this. The blood-thirsty citizens of Maroom flock to a
large stadium and there witness various fellows fighting one another
and also great and ferocious beasts, of which there are many on this
depression-torn planet. Should a poor mendicant triumph in one of these
gruesome contests he is awarded a cash prize. This explains why the
down-and-out of Mars flock to Maroom.
To Maroom then my new friends and I made our way. For although on Mars
I was now called Yar Sud, or Shorty, I still vowed that I would beat
any man or beast I came up against in fair combat. Especially if there
was money involved.
We had hardly reached the suburbs of the great and decadent capital
when I heard a girl screaming in a tone that indicated her very honor
was at stake. Borrowing a sword from Yex Zurb I jumped from my riding
position just to the rear of his saddle and ran toward the scene of the
struggle.
My green acquaintances had informed me that the green men were not the
only race on Mars. There was also a pink skinned human type much like
myself only taller. Still I was not prepared as I dived into the murky,
sward-choked alley between two crumbling ruins to see before me a girl
of striking beauty of figure being pummeled by a large pink man in a
leather suit.
"One kiss is all I request," the man pleaded in a slimy voice that was
far from manly.
"One will lead to another," the girl responded in a tone I admired.
"Soon you will require other favors."
"One little kiss. By Zarg (their idea of God)! If you don't kiss me
quickly, Dina Taurus, I will have you locked away where kissing is out
of the question."
"Lock if you will," said the brave girl. "For kiss you I never shall."
I waited to hear no more. "Stand, sir!" I cried. "The young lady does
not wish to be kissed."
The man was nearly eight feet high, though it was evident that his
pursuit of physical gratification left little room for a careful
program of physical fitness. "Beat it, Yar Sud," he bellowed. "Do you
dare to interfere with a Yax-Tarkas on his appointed rounds?"
"I don't know what a Yax-Tarkas is," I replied, "But I know that my
blade will cut you down if you don't depart this woman's side at once."
His only reply was an angry grunt. He then came at me with sword drawn.
In my student days in Paris I had astounded my teachers with my ability
as a foilsman. Fortunately, on Mars they fence in the Parisian manner
and I was soon able to run the pleasure-bent Yax-Tarkas through and
then dispose of his body in a pit beneath the ruins.
When I returned to the heavy-breathing girl I suddenly gasped. "Isis!"
I cried. For she, indeed, it was.
"My name is Dina Taurus," she replied. "I do thank you for aiding me.
For your kind act, though, I fear you will incur the wrath of all
Maroom."
"My own Isis," I continued. "Whom I have not seen for nearly two dozen
reincarnations. Don't you remember me? Have you forgotten Egypt, my
love?"
"You speak, sir, of love," the girl said in a tender voice. "I was
about to bring up the topic myself. I feel somehow that even though
you are shorter than most you are a man I could someday marry and kiss
freely. I fear I have never met you before."
"Look, look," I said, beginning to draw a map of the solar system in
the dust of the alley with the tip of my recently engored sword. "Look
there." I proceeded to explain where the planet Earth was in relation
to Mars and then where Egypt had been. I told of our great love on that
spot. "No wonder I haven't been able to find you again," I concluded.
"You've been reincarnating here on another planet. Be that as it may,
Isis, we are together again."
"As you talk and as I look at your handsome face it comes upon me more
strongly that I am fond of you. Isis, however, I am not. Dina Taurus, a
simple shopgirl, is who I am. As Dina Taurus I sincerely hope you will
find your way clear to love me."
She was my own Isis and yet she had no recollection of it. I determined
to court her under whatever name she was using. Once you have loved a
woman such as Isis it is hard to shake the habit. "Dina Taurus you
shall be," I smiled. "Dina Taurus, I love you and ask your leave to pay
court to you."
"My leave you have had since the moment you leaped into this fetid
alley," she replied tenderly. "Tell me, by the way, what is your name?"
"My name is Lowell Hawthorne."
From behind us a grim voice spoke, "Lowell Hawthorne, we take you
prisoner in the name of the City and County of Maroom."
A dozen heavily armed men had approached us quietly while we had talked
of love. "What is the charge?"
"Killing a Yax-Tarkas and throwing him in a pit. Come along with us."
To my new found Dina Taurus I whispered, "Just what is a Yax-Tarkas, my
love?"
"The talent agent for the Great Games," she gasped as the lawmen carted
me away.
That is how I came to be sentenced to fight in the arena of Maroom.
Chapter 5: In The Dungeons
My cellmate in the dark stone room under the arena was a handsome
tanned man named Joel Lars. We soon became fast friends, not merely
because we were padlocked together but because we shared a great
community of interests and also believed in the manly virtues and a
planned program of daily exercise.
"We will not be called into the arena for many days," Joel Lars told me.
"Unfortunate," I said. "For I have only now re-met a girl for whom I
have searched many centuries on many worlds."
"Too bad," he replied with real sympathy. "Speaking of girls, would you
care to hear my story?"
"It would help pass the dark hours here."
"It took place on Venus, which as you may know, is a planet in this
system of ours."
"I am a great admirer of that planet," I said, "Please to continue."
"Of the overall surface of that planet I know little," went on Joel
Lars. "Of its interior I know only too much. For it is there that the
only woman I will ever love, Virl Yank, is at this moment a captive of
the fiendish Yes Men of Venus."
"How does she happen to be inside Venus?" I asked.
"Let me go back a bit," said Joel Lars. "My parents were missionaries
and one fine day they took their spaceship to Venus. Our crewmen proved
disloyal and in a dispute over shorter hours they threw my beloved
parents and myself over the side. We were stranded in the steamy
jungles and my parents soon succumbed to the moist living. I, a mere
boy of seven, survived and was raised to manhood by the Boogdabs, what
the Martians would call Yarznigs, roughly equivalent to the Earth's
great apes."
"What of the cursed Yes Men and your dear Virl Yank?"
"Being raised by great apes has a strange effect on one," answered Joel
Lars. "It took several years of therapy to completely rid me of the
idea that I might be an ape myself. I still dream sometimes that my
mother was. Now, as to the Yes Men."
His narrative was cut short at this point by the arrival of a group of
guards who flung our cell open and pulled us to our feet. "There has
been a last minute cancellation," one of them, a coarse hairy fellow,
explained. "The star gladiator is ill and you two will have to go on in
his place."
CLOSING NOTE: What transpired next would fill a book itself. And this
is exactly what my agent has advised me to do with it.
THE END
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YES MEN OF VENUS ***
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