He went more slowly toward the first freighter, slipped within the uncogged port, moved even more slowly as he made a complete search of the shadowy corners of the hold and cabins. He found nothing but the mold and rust that came from the steamy atmosphere. The second freighter proved to be empty also. And he stood for a moment outside its rusty length, his lips a thin white line, his eyes narrowed into slits. Then, never permitting himself to relax, he made a complete search of the grounds, investigating the huts again, searching the rendering sheds, finally stopping, his heart thudding painfully, in the exact center of the clearing. He considered the situation briefly, and his mind came to an abrupt stop against a wall of thought. Either the girl had disappeared into the _Lanka_ jungle because she thought she had seen something or someone there, or she had been captured, silently, by the menace that had murdered the fourteen men who lay in the bunks within the huts. Don Denton backed slowly toward the _Comet_, his ati-gun tight in his hand, never relaxing, ready to fire at the first sign of a living thing that moved. He uncogged the door-port, slipped through, cogged the door shut again. Then he searched the tiny ship from bow to stern, making absolutely certain that he was alone. Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he sagged into the cushions of the pilot's seat, tried to make sense out of the sudden disappearance of the girl. Obviously, there was something wrong with the island. Fourteen men were dead, _Lanka_ plants rotting in the shed, the freighters empty hulks on the clearing's edge. But what could that menace be? He knew, personally, that the only life on Venus was in the oceans, a life that had not progressed far enough to permit it to cope with the brains and skill of men. Yet Jean Palmer was gone, taken by the--the _things_ that had slain fourteen men without leaving wounds on their bodies. Don Denton swore bitterly, his hands clutching the arms of the seat until the knuckles were like polished bone. It was only too evident that the terror had struck but recently; the men's bodies were not decomposed in the slightest. The trouble shooter came from his seat, slid back the panel of the arms cabinet. He slipped into the silk-like folds of the cellu-ray suit, first discarding the oxy-helmet. Then he fitted on the wide belt that held the super ati-guns, checked them to make certain their loads were at maximum power. He felt a slight dizziness from the tainted air that had filled the ship when the port had been opened, shrugged the feeling away with the knowledge that his space-hardened body could easily combat the slight toxic poison without effort. He packed a small knapsack with a compact medicine box and food, left a water bottle behind, knowing that he could find rain puddles in the heavy _Lanka_ leaves.